Every Lament is a Love Song
by Peacockgirl
Summary: After five months of amnesia, Booth realizes something that brings him back to himself—and to the anthropologist that loves him. Three part post End in the Beginning angst fluff fest. NOW COMPLETE
1. Part 1

Disclaimer: If I owned Bones, this season would have ended with three far less devastating words. The title of this fic comes from the Switchfoot song "Yesterday," which I don't own either.

**Part 1**

It was five months to the day since she'd realized she loved him. Five months since she'd sat in his hospital room 35 hours after all his monitors had gone haywire, signifying his severe, unexpected reaction to the anesthesia that at least had not presented itself until after the tumor had been removed. She had attempted to remain clinical throughout the surgery as she observed the doctors carefully picking through his brain. She dealt with death daily, but she was not accustomed to seeing brain matter still crackling with life—certainly not the brain matter of her partner, who she … _cared_ for very strongly. Booth was always so strong, so vibrant. He had a presence—she'd recognized that even when she found that presence rather abhorrent. But he had looked so small on the operating table. So frail. It hurt her to see him so, hurt so much that she couldn't quite compartmentalize it away, even as she ran through her head everything the doctor had told her that promised it was statistically likely he would be fine. But he had asked her to stay with him through the surgery, voice heavy with a vulnerability she was only accustomed to hearing from her own mouth, whenever he convinced her to lower one of her own walls. How could she deny him, when it was her selfish request for an offspring that had stressed him enough to cause this attack? She would be strong for him, because that's what Booth needed, and that's what was logical—he was going to be _fine_, so why was she upset?

The blind panic had come with the discordant sounds of the instruments measuring his heart beat and brain waves. She daren't ask what was happening—she still had the clarity of mind to know that the doctors needed to focus, now more than ever, and she'd promised them before they'd let her accompany Booth that she wouldn't interfere—but she couldn't make herself move, either, so strong was the sudden fear that he was going to leave her. They'd left the realm of scientific probability now, and Booth's fate was in the metaphoric hands of a capacious force she did not believe in. One of the nurses pushed her away as she bustled about the operating table, and Brennan backed herself against the wall and focused all her energy on remembering how to breathe and keeping herself from sinking to the ground. She was back in that club, his blood all over her hands as the light faded from his eyes and _God_, what would she do when this time it was for real.

When the chief surgeon pulled off his gloves and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder she hadn't even realized the sounds from the monitors had changed—becoming not altogether quiet as she feared but returning to their low timbre and steady rhythm. "You can relax, ma'am. Mr. Booth gave us quite a scare, but he's stable now."

It took a few moments for the words to sink in. A few more for her to remember how to formulate a response. "What happened? Was the surgery successful?"

"We removed the tumor. The surgery was nearly complete when he had an adverse reaction to the anesthesia."

"Booth reacts very strongly to drugs," she responded, remembering his bizarre behavior while on Vicoden, and his even more extreme response to anti-fungal medication.

"We saw that in his chart, of course. But there was nothing to indicate he'd have a reaction with this particular compound. Luckily we were able to stabilize him and replace the bone flap."

"So he's going to be okay?"

Brennan might not have been good at reading people, but she knew that the doctor paused too long before answering.

"Tell me what happened!" she demanded, shocked at her own vehemence.

"He's in a coma. I'm confident that once he awakens he'll make a full recovery. But I can't tell you when that might be."

The news could have been worse, she knew, but it should have been better. Still, there was a strange calm. Booth is a coma was far better than Booth flat-lining on the operating table. Booth would fight his way back to her, because he was strong and he had promised he would never betray her. And leaving her now would be the biggest betrayal, after spending years making her need him.

He had asked her to stay with him, so she did. Even when the others came to cajole her away, Angela swearing he wouldn't want to see her look so haggard, Sweets suggesting she'd be able to think more clearly about the situation after a good night's sleep. The first night the nurses tried to kick her out after visiting hours. She bought their silence with a large donation to the hospital. After that they tried to lure her to the nurse's break room, promising her a cot she did not accept. She would keep watch and he would come back to her—that was her decided course of action, and she determined not to let anything or anyone sway her. Realizing defeat, Angela had brought her a fresh change of clothes and her laptop. Brennan had repaid her with a genuine smile, thankful that her friend had realized she'd be calmed by the capability of doing something productive.

She'd always found her thoughts easiest to organize when she wrote them down. And she'd had so many thoughts to work through. Irrational thoughts. Ever since Booth had been wheeled into surgery she'd been so damn irrational.

She'd spent the first night in the hospital awake, trying to figure out why she was so frightened. She was not the one recovering from brain surgery. No matter what happened to Booth, she would be fine. But that didn't seem quite true, even if it should have been. Booth's death would affect her career. She'd grown fond of the fieldwork, and it was unlikely another agent would let her do it, even unlikelier they'd get along well enough for her to be able to stand working in such close proximity. It would be an adjustment, going back to the lab full time. But forensic anthropology was her passion, not detective work, and she could still bring justice to the world by identifying victims, even if it was another who caught their killers.

She would miss the time they spent together. Lunches at the diner, drinks at the Founding Fathers, Thai food and paperwork late into the night. Bantering in the SUV, on the platform, in her office. Aggravating Sweets by being purposefully uncooperative.

Nor would she have anyone to go to in the middle of the night, when she'd thought for hours about something without reaching a satisfying conclusion. She used to go to Angela for advice on emotional matters, on the rare occasion she thought she needed it, but Ange, while sympathetic, did not have a lot of patience. So many times she asked Brennan just to "go with something," unable to explain exactly why or comprehend when Brennan didn't get it innately. Booth was good with matters of the heart, and she could tell how much he wanted her to understand. He didn't judge or rush her. She could show up at his apartment at any hour and he would hand her a bottle of beer and let her vent, no questions asked.

In their four years of working together, she'd come to appreciate that his lessons were ones she wanted to learn.

She let him change her, something she'd always resisted. Some of her foster parents had tried to tell her she was worthless, and their scorn had made her even more determined to make something of herself. She would be her own person, not anyone else's. But Booth thought she could be more than she'd ever striven for, and without consciously choosing she began to try to emulate his ideal.

Lately his words had struck her more than normal. Everything he'd said about love seemed increasingly appealing. Even though it never seemed to work out—for awhile she'd thought Angela and Hodgins were a rare exception, for the entomologist been so hyperbolic yet sincere in expressing his love for the forensic artist in that car when he thought he had only hours to live, yet that had fallen to pieces for some subtle reason Brennan still couldn't grasp—those around her continued to search. How many times had she and Booth arrested a wife who had killed her husband, or a husband who had killed his wife, and yet the way he spoke of love, as if it was some adventure far more fulfilling and intense than any of the digs she had ever been on, made her yearn for something that would supersede the statistics, complicate all anthropologic studies with its uniqueness.

He had left all sorts of metaphorical marks on her, that much was certain, and she didn't want to scrape them away—not now, not ever. But would they fade, if he was gone? Would she go back to being the Temperance Brennan she had worked so hard to be: focused, distinguished, brilliant and impenetrable, or would the changes he had wrought on her remain emblazoned on the organ he had always seemed most fixated on—her heart?

In truth she would miss him, and she wasn't sure if it was much more complicated than that. She would miss his grin, his cocky attitude with his buckle to match, his hand at the small of her back constantly reminding her of his presence, his arms always ready to hold her if she needed them. She was more dependent on him than on anyone else—even Angela. He had become integrated into nearly every facet of her life, until it sometimes seemed like they were more of a team than two individuals. Two halves of the same whole.

_All searching for the slightest hint of a real connection … two people become one_.

His words, so clear in her mind.

Oh dear. More complicated indeed.

The realization hit her with the force of a body dropped seventeen stories.

She, Temperance Brennan, was in love with Seeley Booth.

There was none of the fear she was expecting, no desire to run from the person who could hurt her, because that person was Booth, and he wouldn't, she knew that. But this—this revelation was problematic. She remembered other things he had said, about lines, and people in high-risk situations not being able to be involved romantically. There was no way she would give up working with him.

But he didn't love her back, so what did it matter? She could hide her feelings, and nothing would have to change.

Except that just didn't feel right—was it her so called "gut" telling her that, like it supposedly imparted so much wisdom to Booth on a regular basis? Booth had drawn the line, yes. But she thought of the way he had looked at her before the surgery, needing her to stay with him just as desperately as she never wanted to leave his side. That was not how partners looked at each other. Not even how friends did.

He was in love with her too.

It was suddenly clear. There was so much evidence. All the promises he made her that she would be loved, his tendency to drive away her sexual partners, how upset he'd been when she'd dated his brother. A hundred little clues hidden within things he'd said and done. He had just been waiting for to recognize her own capability to love.

Instead of being stifled she felt liberated. Booth would wake up soon, and they would share all the things she had yearned to experience. Their happiness would be all the greater for this one last trial. In the legends of nearly every society joy came only after great sorrow, to make the emotion even stronger from the contrast.

Feeling inspired, she began churning out a novel, a half-formulated plot in mind. She and Booth were romantically involved, but still partners, though not in solving crime. But crime still found them, and they had to solve a murder without any of her forensic knowledge or his FBI training. The important part was at the end of the day instead of staring longingly at each other over coffee or beer and then going home to their empty apartments they went home together and made love, falling asleep in each other's arms and never doubting that they'd stay that way forever. They were partners, but not just partners. Even with the murder their lives were nearly perfect.

But she couldn't stick to the narrative. She kept diverting into monologues that tried to synthesize all her newfound conclusions about love. Despite Booth's current condition, her words were infused with hope as she circled around the topic. Literarily it was a mess, as she realized after two days of nearly non-stop writing. It was certainly not something she could turn into her publisher. Eventually she deleted the entire thing, realizing it was too private to risk being read by another. They were not words meant to be shared with anyone else. She would retain the truths they allowed her to discover, and that was all that mattered.

Just moments after she tossed away the product of her four day vigil, the blank computer screen staring back at her with an infinite number of possible ways to be filled, he began to stir. She was so ready for the moment—how proud would he be that she'd finally recognized his subtext and shifted her heart into overdrive.

But she'd forgotten how quickly elation could turn to bitterness. "Who are you?" he said, and it was nearly as bad as that moment in surgery. That was the one question he should never have had to ask her. He knew—he was the only one who knew, probably better than she knew herself. How could he not know, now? How could he forget?

"That isn't funny, Booth," she answered, needing it to be a joke. She'd slug him for it as soon as he was well, but to have him joking with her now rather than the alternative would make up for that.

"I'm not kidding," he said solemnly. He looked so odd, gauze wrapped around his head, eyes wide and flitting about the room. "Surgery? Coma?" he muttered. "What happened to me?"

"You started having hallucinations. Months ago, but we didn't realize they were serious. Five days ago you started conversing with a cartoon character when we were interrogating a suspect. I brought you right to the hospital. The doctors discovered a brain tumor."

"I have brain cancer?" He was so distraught she reached out and clenched his hand, as she had when the doctor first gave him the diagnosis, but this time he did not squeeze back.

"The tumor was benign. It hasn't spread. Now that it's been removed no further treatment should be necessary. You're awake now, so you should be fine." Physically, that was true, but mentally? No one had warned her about memory loss. "You really don't know who I am."

He looked at her so long she wanted to fidget under his gaze. It was not so hard a question. "We're married, right?"

She recoiled as if he had struck her. He had sounded timid like Parker, the first time she'd met him, and Seeley Booth was never timid. And his words. No matter the number of times she'd denounced the institution of marriage in his presence the thought of them so bound together now shook her. But he was so wrong, and wherever had he gotten the idea, and she finally knew for sure that her nightmare was not over.

"No," she answered, too sharply, shaking her head as if to clear it as much as anything else. "We're not. We work together. We're just partners." So many times before she'd said those words, and most of those times she'd thought she meant them, but never had they seemed so thoroughly wretched.

"Oh." Was that confusion, sadness, disappointment—she couldn't tell. "What do we do then?"

"We solve crimes."

"On purpose?"

"Yes. You're a Special Agent with the FBI. I'm a forensic anthropologist for the Jeffersonian Institute's Medico-Legal lab. There's a team of scientists at my lab that help me indentify dead bodies, and we analyze the evidence to help you catch the murderers."

"Huh."

She'd just summarized their four years together, and his response had been "huh." She tried to figure out what could be going on, but no one had warned her that this might happen and she didn't know much about brain surgery. She had a sudden irrational desire to find Mr. Nigel-Murray. He was likely to have all sorts of knowledge on the subject.

"So we work in The Lab?"

"It's not really 'the' lab. It's 'a' lab. I work there. You work in the Hoover building, with the other FBI agents. But you come by all the time to see what we're up to, and then you and I go out and investigate."

"Who do you work with?"

"Angela, Hodgins, Dr. Saroyan…"

"Sweets?"

"Sort of. He's an FBI psychologist, but in the past year he's helped us with profiling on numerous cases."

"Wendell? Daisy? Vincent?"

The fact that he remembered her grad students, most of whom he'd barely even spoken to, but not her hurt, but she tried not to let him see it. "They're my grad students. They intern in the lab on occasion."

"Zach?"

That time she could not stop her face from crumbling. "Zach was the intern when you first started working with the Jeffersonian. He was my assistant."

"But he doesn't work there anymore?"

"He's in a mental institution."

"Oh." She wanted to ask him what the hell was going on but she didn't think he'd have an answer. There was no lucidity in his gaze. "And what's your name?"

One sob that she disguised as a hiccup, and pain flashed so clearly across his face that she swore she would not cry again in his presence. "Dr. Temperance Brennan."

"Brennan," he repeated. He reached back to run a hand through his hair, encountered the gauze, and then dropped it awkwardly back to his bedside. "And we were really just partners?"

Again with that hated phrase. "Friends, too," she amended. "We were—are—friends."

"So that's why you were waiting for me to wake up."

"Yes," she lied. She could not confess her love to this man that didn't know her, not when she had never told it to the one who did. Everything she'd written about love which she'd thought so inspired at the time now seemed like drivel. Nothing more than fool romanticism—it was physically impossible for human beings to fly without the aid of mechanics. And this burden did not give her wings. It was tearing her arms out of her sockets.

____

He was released a week after he came out of the coma. His skull was healing nicely, his brain scans were clear and aside from the fact he'd made no progress on regaining his memory, his mind and his body were functioning normally. The doctor recommended someone stay with him for a few days until he became reaccustomed to his surroundings. Brennan volunteered immediately, and no one argued with her.

They were halfway through a silent drive to his apartment when he asked, "So what do I call you?"

"What do you mean?" she asked, knowing full well what he meant, but needing to stall so she could collect her thoughts.

"Well, Dr. Temperance Brennan sure is a mouthful. Dr. Brennan is too formal. I know you told me I could call you Brennan in the hospital, but that doesn't sound right either. And Temperance…" He seemed to stumble over the syllables, not at all the way he'd used to say her name those few times a moment was so intimate that he'd use it.

"No one calls me Temperance," she told him with a heartless chuckle. "Angela calls me Bren."

She couldn't at all identify the look that passed over his face. "No. I couldn't. Not if that's some gal-pal thing."

"My family calls me Tempe."

"Tempe." It sounded wrong from his lips, and even he seemed to know it. "I guess that works. But that's not what I called you before."

"No."

"You want me to remember that on my own." She wanted to sob, because even without his memory he was still able to figure her out, and if he could realize that, what else might he discover? But she'd determined not to cry in front of him, so she pushed the pain away and nodded.

"I will," he promised. "Someday." It was only then she realized that it was years ago he'd started making promises he couldn't keep.

____

She stayed with him for nearly a week, and each day was agony. She did not understand the way this new Booth looked at her, and sometimes she was nearly certain it was with disgust. She had spent years learning to understand him but suddenly all that knowledge was useless. His personality should not have been altered, but he did not react to her the same way. They had always bantered, the antagonism gradually melting into a mutual respect that still allowed them to grapple for dominance. But it was hard enough to even engage Booth in conversation now. He never disagreed with her, never teased her about her lack of pop culture knowledge—though he had forgotten eight years of his own pop culture knowledge and she found herself quite able to follow his words now, and sorry for it. She cooked him macaroni and cheese he politely complimented but did not rave about, patiently answered whatever questions he asked and fell asleep each night in Parker's room feeling farther from him than she'd been those four nights in the hospital. As soon as the doctor cleared him to live on his own she went back to her apartment.

Never before had the need to run been so strong. She wanted to go off on a dig to somewhere far away—Greenland, or Australia, or Mozambique. She'd learned after her parents left that distance made it easier to ignore love. Maybe it never went away completely, but you could bury it like a coffin, submerge it so deep that it metamorphosed into something else—anger, usually, which she'd become quite adept at compartmentalizing away. She could already feel the transformation starting—he had spent four years chipping away at all her defenses, making her open up to him, demanding her trust so unassumingly she had given it to him, only to do what everyone did, though he had sworn he would not—he had left her.

But she couldn't leave. Before his operation he had asked her to stay by his side, and her faith in him was stronger than her desire to flee. He needed her, and if she had been the one with amnesia there was nothing that could drag him away from her. She knew that. She wanted to be that faithful.

But every moment with this Booth that was not her Booth was painful. The first time she took him to the diner she expected the familiarity to spark some memory. How many times had they sat there, debating the nuances of life and arguing about pie? Surely something would have to come back to him. But he took everything in with wide, puzzled eyes. He ordered a steak sandwich, didn't ask for desert, and there was no meaning or joy in their conversation. Yet she remembered everything: the evening he'd explained to her the difference between crappy sex and making love, and she'd imagined him running his hands down her body and let him win the argument simply because she wanted him to be right; singing her dad's favorite Poco song with him, ignoring the fact he was terribly off-key because she was so glad he was all right; when she'd stared through the window at him as he talked to that kid about the responsibility of being a father, and she was so sure he was the best man she'd ever known that it took her breath away. When two more visits were just as unproductive, she stopped taking him there because she couldn't bear it. They found another place to eat, a burger joint with crappy food and dingy surroundings, but at least there neither of them had anything to reflect on.

She outlined countless cases they had solved, telling him of the clues in the bones that had led them to various suspects. But she found herself omitting the personal details. She didn't tell him about their late night conversation during the Christmas lab lock-down, when she'd been so sure he was going to kiss her, even if it was only the anti-fungal medication making him loopy. Didn't mention how he'd given her a Brainy Smurf figurine after she'd rambled on about evolving—just detailed a high school reunion gone awry, soupy remains and accidental murder. Truth was, she was desperate for him to remember such moments on his own. She needed to know, if his memory seemed to return, that he did actually know her, and had not just gotten better at synthesizing what he was told.

After two months with no progress she began to despair. For sixty days she had spent at least a few hours at his side and he hadn't regained a single memory that mattered. At first she'd seen his memory loss as a trial they'd both have to work through, but the possibility of it being permanent seemed increasingly likely. It became harder to drop by his apartment and endure the awkward silence as they ate Italian food because he did not know he used to prefer Thai. So she started to decrease the frequency, citing a need to catch up on her work that was not quite a lie—her number of Limbo identifications was far beneath her personal standards, because it was hard now to look at the bones and drown out all the thoughts swirling through her head. His nickname for her was so tied to her profession she could not help but think of him as she stood over her skeletons. This loss of her ability to focus galled her. Without Booth, she should have had her work to fall back on, but even that gave her little fulfillment anymore.

She was still the one he called, when he didn't remember where his hockey league met, or was practically in tears because Parker had cried when he'd forgotten his birthday. When he needed her she was there, but she found that she simple couldn't be there every other time, waiting for a moment that might never come. She knew the rest of her team had contact with him periodically—Wendell and Hodgins invited him over to watch sports and engage in typical male bonding behavior; Cam, who he remembered, tried to bridge the gap between his distant past and the one he was missing; Angela showed him photographs, drew pictures; Sweets tried all sort of psychological mindgames. She let them fill some of his time, stepped back. It didn't make her hurt any less.

____

Yet five months exactly after she'd realized she loved him, the need to see him struck her so forcefully she left Wendell in the midst of explaining an anomaly on the victim's right femur and sped all the way to the Hoover. As much as she'd always complained about him not letting her drive, she found the task unsettling now. Laborious. And environmentally friendly or not, she missed his hulking FBI issue SUV.

"Hey Tempe," he said when she entered his office. "Long time no see."

It had been more than a week. She was weaning herself off from him, dropping by less often. If this bothered him, he did not say so.

She realized she had nothing to say to him, because she was not sure why she had come. It just seemed significant, that for five months she had loved him, though that still meant nothing to him, and was thereby irrelevant. "I was just wondering if you wanted to grab some lunch."

"I've already eaten actually."

Why wouldn't he have? It was after one o'clock, and Booth had a large stomach that demanding regular feeding, unlike her own, which was used to being ignored. "Oh. I'm sorry to have bothered you." She turned to leave, feeling foolish. What had she hoped to accomplish here?

"Wait. We can still go out, grab some coffee or something."

"No, that's quite all right." But she didn't go.

"One more month," he said, when the silence grew a little too long. "One more month of desk duty, and then Cullen's going to send me to that refresher course at Quantico. Once I'm cleared for field work, maybe we can work together again?"

Six months. Six months Cullen had given Booth to remember his FBI training on his own. He'd been remarkably understanding about the whole thing, swearing he'd do anything he could not to lose one of his very best field agents. Booth's instincts and reflexes were still intact, and if he couldn't remember how to be an agent there was no reason he couldn't learn to be one again. Bones knew the deskwork he'd been assigned in the interim was driving him stir-crazy.

He was hopeful, boyish even, at the prospect of returning to his normal job, and she should have been just as optimistic. To work with Booth again: wasn't that what she wanted? To be _partners, _instead of people who were once friends but were now simple awkward acquaintances. What was more likely to spur his memories than driving to crime scenes in his SUV, him remarking on her lack of tact while dealing with victims' families, her telling him the anthropological significance of nearly everything even when he did not ask for it?

She just didn't think she could do it. She couldn't withstand her hopes being dashed daily, the constant wondering if she could do something, say something, that would prompt his memory. She'd never thought herself a weak person, but she'd never felt such a mess in all her life. She was just so tired of all of this. Of everything.

"We'll see. Perotta's been working pretty well with my team." She hated working with Perotta. Always had. At first she'd attributed it to the unfamiliarity. It had taken her and her team quite awhile to fall into a comfortable rapport with Booth, but they certainly had eventually. Then Booth got ridiculously accused of a murder and the FBI thought they could just send some perky blond who didn't appreciate their input or understand their processes to help out on the case? Even worse was when her meddling almost cost Booth his life. Brennan had been doing her damndest to save him from the Gravedigger, and Perotta was sticking her nose where it didn't belong and insinuating they had something to do with Vega's murder? Brennan recognized now there her initial observations may have been slightly tainted by jealousy. The agent was Booth's type—blonde, strong-willed. Brennan had dreaded the moment when she and Booth became reacquainted, because seeing the two of them in a relationship would be more than she could take. But Perotta had made no move and Booth didn't even seem to flirt with her, one small relief amidst months of hell. With Booth out of commission, it made sense for the Bureau to assign Perotta to any cases requiring advanced forensics. Working with her the second time around wasn't as odious as Brennan had dreaded, but she wasn't Booth, and Brennan certainly didn't want to be her partner. She accompanied Perotta to retrieve bodies, usually, the need to make sure the evidence was not compromised stronger than her self-pity, but she left all the investigating to the agent.

"You don't want to be partners again?" He looked like a kicked puppy—she thought of Ripley, and how she'd once compared the two, but Booth's eyes weren't reassuring anymore nor did he seem capable of violence in that moment.

"That's not what I said."

"I thought that's what we were. Are. _Partners_."

Her breath hitched at the word she was beginning to hate and the tears, which she'd done so well at suppressing, threatened to spill down her cheeks and give her away. "Look, it probably won't even be up to us. Cullen will make a decision about your reassignment."

"Are you okay, Bren?" His demeanor changed in an instant, suddenly sympathetic rather than hurt. She puzzled at the moniker as he pulled himself from his chair and took a step toward her, arms slightly outstretched.

It was probably instinctive, but oh how she remembered all the times she'd clung to him when she was scared. All those days at his bedside she had yearned for the contact, but then he had awoken and it didn't seem something work partners did. She was terribly afraid if she tried to explain to him about guy hugs he wouldn't believe her. Months before their tragedy she'd overheard Booth tell Sweets that guys didn't hug—though at the time she hadn't cared to analyze why he might have told her that particular untruth. But she thought that she could hug him then, and he wouldn't mind. He'd rub her back, whisper something soothing in her ear, and she would feel better, because for a few moments she could pretend.

He was still the same man, she realized. Perplexed, uncertain, but still Booth. Still kind. Generous. Patient. For the first time she could see herself falling in love all over, with this man with no memory. But it had been such a long, painstaking process. She didn't think she had the strength to let him learn her again. To share her secrets, piece by painful piece. To wait, as he even more slowly revealed bits of himself. Even if she could do so, there was no guarantee. Everything good happens eventually, he had told her. He had not said everything good happens twice. She'd never be able to withstand the possibility that this time he might not love her back.

"I'm fine," she lied, swatting her tears away even though he'd certainly seen them. "I should go. You have work, and I shouldn't have bothered you. I'm fine."

"Wait," he called as she left the office, but she didn't.

____

She knew she couldn't go back to the lab in this state so she drove to the Reflecting Pool. But sitting on a bench, staring out at the water without him by her side only made her remember what she had lost. The center had not held. The Jeffersonian's partnership with the FBI would carry on—all sorts of contractual obligations guaranteed that. She was far from her peak efficiency, her focus shattered, but everyone else still did their jobs. Cases were solved, and a number of her interns were showing great promise. But they were not the family they used to be—or if they were, she was no longer part of it. They all pitied her, even she could see that, and all their extensions of aid were worthless because there was nothing they could do to make her feel better.

This wasn't worth it. Nakamura had been wrong. Nothing could be worth this hell she'd opened herself up to. Logic had never betrayed her, but she'd betrayed it, and now it had abandoned her to these feckless emotions which she no longer seemed capable of controlling.

She went to the cemetery next. Collapsed by her mother's grave, and cried out to Booth's god, who she now hated with a fiery passion. "This isn't fair!" she declared. "Why make me love him, and then take him away? And yet leave him here, just out of reach. How could he have forgotten me?"

She almost wished he had a tombstone she could talk to. It was an awful thought—because surely Seeley Booth missing eight years of memories was far better than Seeley Booth rotting away in a coffin. It would be terrible for Parker to be without a father—but wasn't he nearly fatherless anyway, part of her whispered. The boy still came to the Jeffersonian for science lessons with her father, and she had glimpsed him a few times. He was quiet, subdued, not the bundle of energy he'd always been. The first time she'd seen him after the surgery he had run to her, calling, "Dr. Bones."

"Why doesn't Daddy remember me?" he had asked.

She'd been so desperate to hear her nickname, and his eyes looked just like his father's, so instead of trying to explain potential side effects of brain surgery she wrapped her arms around him, buried her face in his curls and whispered, "I don't know."

If Booth had a grave she'd sit by it and tell him that this was never supposed to happen. She'd asked him to father her child before she dared name the intense connection she had to him, but she'd known her intention—whatever the future might bring, whether death or circumstance tore them apart, she would always have a piece of him with her. Despite everything she'd said about not needing him to be involved, she'd assumed that he would be. They spent so much of their time together, anyway, it was inevitable. She knew he was a wonderful father. He loved Parker so very much, and those few days when they'd taken care of Andy she'd seen his paternal side in full effect. In truth, it had not been in Sweets office when she first considered him fathering her child. It was in her office, when he'd slipped and called Andy "ours." An image had flashed in her mind of a child that _was_ theirs, accompanied by a pang of yearning altogether unfamiliar. She'd buried them both, unwilling to deal with what they might mean, but they'd resurfaced in force during Sweet's silly word association game and she'd no longer felt the need to push them aside.

But now she had lost Booth, and there would be no child. He had made the donation, yes. Technically she could go through with it. But his words in the interrogation room haunted her. Broken. Hysterical. "I can't be the father unless I'm involved." Of course he couldn't. She should have known that. How often had she comforted him when he was upset about not getting to spend enough time with Parker—and how many times had she simply sat beside him, observing his heartbreak and not knowing how to make it go away. She should not have been so vehement about his non-involvement. She should have told him that she wanted to raise their baby together. Instead she'd tormented him so much he'd had a breakdown in the middle of a case. She'd caused him to need emergency brain surgery!

Maybe this was her punishment. Maybe Booth's god did exist, or maybe there was truth in the concept of karma. She had tormented him, by being too stubborn and independent and afraid, and now she was being tormented in return.

Because even if he hadn't finally admitted to wanting to be involved, she couldn't have the baby now. How was she supposed to explain her pregnancy to him? This was far outside the bounds of "just partners." The man he used to be had understood her request, because he'd spent years learning how her mind worked. Without those memories he would think her some kind of monster, that she would harvest his sperm but deny him her child.

Perhaps she was a monster. But she could not believe, even now, that he had ever felt that of her. Perhaps he should have, but he didn't. She could remember his voice, his eyes, his words, every time he had comforted her, explained something, simply been there, when she was so used to people disappearing. So many memories, so many moments, and she couldn't compartmentalize them away because in their four years together they had become her life. If she made herself forget, then she'd be nearly as lost as him.

Sometimes when she was alone it seemed like he had to come back to her, because it was simply what he did. He rescued her, and she'd found it infuriating that he felt the need to protect her until Kenton had very nearly killed her but suddenly there he's been, broken ribs and all, to pull her from that hook in the nick of time and hold her until she stopped crying. He'd flown to New Orleans despite her plea not to, helping her to make sense of the frightening gap in her memory and returning to her a piece of her past, despite the potential repercussions to his career, even his freedom, for tampering with a crime scene. When the Gravedigger captured her she had known he would come, even as the fear and the depleting oxygen supply made that increasingly less likely. Every time she saw him that faith flared in her mind, but as each encountered ended with no recognition a part of it died. When it was all gone she was not sure what she would do: move on or become unable to function.

____

She went back to the lab. Brushed off Angela's attempts to make her talk about where she'd gone. Ignored Cam's insistence she go home at seven o'clock. Worked on Limbo cases until nearly midnight, and then went back to her apartment only because she knew Cam would watch the security tapes, and had threatened to fire her if she didn't go home each night.

But she hated lying in her large empty bed, because while she was usually able to keep her tears in check during the day, at night she could not stem them. All she could think about was the promises he had made her, and all she had imagined for them while he laid in his coma, giving in once to his penchant for conjecture, to her downfall, and how cruel life had been to them both. She clutched a pillow to her chest, wishing it was him, and yearning for the morning.

Maybe it was time to give up. Maybe it _was_ time to go on a dig somewhere. He seemed to be functioning quite fine without her. She was not this woman—someone so soft and needy that a breakup destroyed her. There had not even been a breakup, because there had been no relationship. Not technically. It was absurd for her to be so upset all the time, and she needed to find a way to fix this.

But even resolving that brought no comfort. She'd change her mind in the morning; she always did. She couldn't leave him—she knew far too well how much damage that could do.

A pounding on her door shook her from her misery. She glanced at her clock to find it after one am. Scrubbing the back of her arm across her face, she rose.

Five years ago she would have grabbed the baseball bat from under her bed and had the police on speed dial before she even looked through the peephole, but that night she knew exactly who must be pounding on her door. Eight months ago this would not be so anomalous an occurrence—it was late, yes, but they kept strange hours—but now—whatever could it mean? There was not enough evidence to draw a conclusion, so she yanked open the door to find him, as expected, on her doorstep.

"Booth," she croaked, voice raw from crying and disuse. He wore a loose-fitting t-shirt with some slogan she did not comprehend and grey sweatpants with "FBI" printed down one side. There was nothing too unnatural about that, considering it was one in the morning. But there was something about his stance that was unnatural—unnatural because it had been so natural, five months ago, for him to stand so straight and tall when lately he slouched, the failure of his memory always weighing on him. And his eyes, his warm and reassuring brown eyes seemed to sparkle as he stepped inside and uttered, "Bones."

She was so shocked she stepped backwards rather than forwards, allowing him to close her apartment door behind him. The single syllable she'd so yearned to hear had been spoken with such force, such raw sincerity in the tone she fiercely remembered and she couldn't help the conclusion she immediately jumped to, but nor could she voice it, as if daring to say it would render it untrue. "Do you…" she whispered, unable to finish the thought, not sure that she wanted to hope, because if this was torn away from her now she'd surely shatter beyond all repair.

He nodded, once, and a shade of the smile she adored so much graced his face. "Yeah. I remember."

She sobbed as she threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around his waist and burying her face in his chest, letting his shirt catch her tears. His arms came around her, one hand pressed against the oh-so-familiar spot on her back, the other reaching up to caress the back of her neck and tangle his fingers in her hair. He was strong and warm and smelled like Booth, and she'd waited so very long to do this. It was far different than many of their past embraces—closer to their desperate coming together on the chopper moments before the Navy ship blew than the far more frequent guy hugs. He rested his chin on her shoulder, shushing her, whispering "I'm sorry, Bones" over and over.

"Prove it," she finally managed. Though it was not a clear request Booth understood.

"You blackmailed me into letting you come out in the field with me, and then you got me in major trouble with Cullen when you shot an unarmed man. We've gone undercover twice, once in Vegas and once in the Circus. We had to start seeing Sweets when I arrested your father right before Jack and Angela's almost wedding, and the kid made us go on a double date to a pottery class with him and his weird fish-loving girlfriend. You have a beautiful singing voice, and a smile the world doesn't get to see nearly enough, and you care so damn much about every body you identify."

It was true, he had come back to her, and there was such reverence in his voice and she could not put this off any longer, not when she thought she'd never have the chance to say the words he's worked so hard to get her to realize. She pulled away from him, just enough so she could look him in the eye, though his hand was still rubbing circles on her back.

"I love you."

And then the paralyzing fear that maybe she'd misread him, which would be worse than him never having come back at all, but only for a moment. But then he smiled—his full on charm smile which made her feel things she could no longer just attribute to biologic processes—and said, "I know."

His left hand made its way to her face, pushing some wayward strands of hair behind her ear and then ever so lightly caressing her cheek. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the sensation wash over her. Opened them again when Booth began to speak.

"I realized that, tonight. I think that's what made me remember."

Their eyes locked. "After you left today I couldn't stop thinking about you. About how you've been there for me ever since I woke up in the hospital room. And how positively devastated you'd looked when you left, as much as you'd tried to hide it. You're so good at hiding, Bones, and God, I'm an idiot, but I didn't realize until a few hours ago that this was hitting you so hard because you're in love with me. But once I knew that—I knew that I loved you too. Knew it. And then I remembered why."

This was it—the last moment she would let them stand so close, stare into each other's eyes but turn away. She closed the distance, reaching back to his neck to pull his head closer to hers. It started gentle, so achingly sweet, but she was tired of aching and she needed him, so she deepened the kiss and plundered his mouth until she couldn't breathe.

She sucked in air as his lips trailed down her neck. She could feel her pulse racing under his mouth and she did not try to muffle the sigh of relief and ecstasy that spilled from her throat.

But when his mouth made it back to her ear he pressed his forehead against hers, pulling back when she leaned forward. "We don't have to do this now," he said, but his voice was deliciously husky and his eyes were dark was desire. "I can go home and come back in the morning, or I can sleep on the couch. We've got all the time in the world. If you're not ready…"

But he had convinced her that she never wanted anyone else to touch her but him right before that possibility was taken from her, and she was desperate for him to touch her now.

"I've been ready for five months, Booth. I'm so tired of somedays and eventually. Make love to me, Seeley."

He froze, he eyes seeming to look right through her, searching for some shred of uncertainty or regret. Always so chivalrous. But that wasn't what she needed now—she needed him—and she was about to tell him so again when his lips crashed back over hers. Then she was in his arms as he carried her back to her bedroom.

The tears started again when he laid her on her comforter, the mussed sheets reminding her how just half an hour before she had been curled there, with only desperation and loneliness for company. Her life had shifted again, just as it had in that hospital—twice: first when she knew that she loved him and again once she knew she had lost him. The flood of emotions was overwhelming—emotions she had stored away for so long they now rushed through her with astounding force, and she could throw up no walls to contain them. Relief and joy and fear and love, all so strong and muddled, and she couldn't fight them, not with Booth there, whole again and in love with her, his hand inching up underneath her tank top and her body on fire.

But he noticed, of course he did, and he extricated both hands so he could brush his thumbs under her eyes—though as soon as those tears were gone others fell to replace them. "Temperance?" he breathed, and the concern in his voice brought a sob from her throat—how many times in the past five months had she wished he would sense her pain and respond like that?

"I can't— I'm just— Don't stop," she pleaded. Only he could make her whole again. She'd finally accepted that. Together they would be fine. He'd put all her pieces back together.

He hesitated even longer this time, propped on his elbows above her, hands tracing her glistening face. She wanted to reassure him that he wasn't taking advantage, but she couldn't begin to find the words. So she just stared back at him, willing him to know what she needed, and finally he said, "I love you so damn much," and neither hesitated again.

When her lips found the scar on his chest he whispered, "Pam Nunan," and when her hand brushed against his thigh he mumbled "Gallagher." Normally she would not wish to be reminded of such things, but the fact that he knew of them soothed her. It was not only the good moments he'd remembered. It was important that he remembered the meaning of these scars, because it was the bad as much as the good that had shaped them, making them who they were both to themselves and to each other. She had saved him, and he had been willing to die for her, and these were truths learned once she hoped would never need to be re-proven.

Afterwards she lay with her head on his chest, counting his heartbeats. At some point her tears had stopped. There was joy percolating inside her, but the sensation was foreign and she didn't quite trust it. His appearance in her apartment still seemed surreal. She dared not close her eyes.

"You should get some sleep, Bones," he said, his voice rumbling through her as his hand stroked her hair.

When she did not consent, he continued. "What are you afraid of?"

_Such a strange dream_, he had said. _It felt so real_. What if this was her dream? Better to stay in it then, for all eternity.

"That I'll wake up and you'll be gone," she finally admitted.

He pressed a kiss to her forehead. "I'm not going anywhere. I promise," he swore. And she found, as always, that she couldn't help but believe him.


	2. Part 2

_Author's Note: First off, a huge thank you to all my wonderful reviewers, and to all the lovely people who put this story on their Favorites/Story Alerts. Having my inbox filled with notifications from for days was a wonderful surprise!_

_Secondly, despite my delay in writing and posting (real life was quiet insistent about claiming my time last week) I had this story all planned before I read the latest issue of TV Guide. (If anyone wants to hear me rant about that particular article, feel free to private message me!) But hey, if Hart Hanson can ignore his own spoilers, then so can I!_

_Obviously, I still don't own Bones._

**Part 2**

For the first time in five months Booth awoke to find his mind clear, memories settled properly in place. Considering that the love of his life was also asleep in his arms, he thought he'd never had a more wonderful morning.

Except for the awful racket of her alarm clock, proclaiming it was six a.m. and time to get ready for work.

Bones wasn't moving, and Booth quickly realized he'd need to take matters into his own hands. Set to a radio-station broadcasting only static, the damned alarm was quickly tainting his new favorite memory, and he could definitely think of _much_ better ways to wake up his Bones.

It took a few lengthy seconds to untangle his arms from his still sleeping partner. He nearly lost his balance as he leant over her, slapping at the snooze button on her side of the bed. _Smooth, Seeley, real smooth—squash the girl while she's sleeping._ But he averted any such disaster, stopping the noise before falling back beside her. He didn't try to stop the chuckle welling up inside him. He was in bed with Dr. Temperance Brennan—his partner, his love, his Bones. A little voice in the back of his head that sounded suspiciously like Angela declared, "Finally."

Taking advantage of this strange new opportunity, he watched her as she slept. The depth of her slumber worried him a bit, but after the state he'd found her in last night he was not surprised. There were dark circles under her eyes, though he'd wiped away all the tear tracks. Her face was relaxed, her breaths deep and even, and she looked entirely at peace, a state she was rarely in while awake. It was that contrast that sealed the deal for him—she was not going in to work today. Not on time, anyway. She could give him hell once she woke if she wanted to, but he'd face her wrath gladly if it meant she got a few more hours of desperately needed rest. Before their nine minute reprieve expired he leaned over her again—a bit more carefully this time—and turned off the alarm entirely. He also grabbed her cell phone off the nightstand. Frowning at the discovery of three additional alarms set five minutes apart, he cancelled them all and switched her phone to silent.

Despite what he'd guessed when they first started working together, Bones wasn't a morning person. He'd first discovered that when he'd barged into Angela's boyfriend's house in New Mexico, bearing coffee and news about jurisdiction for an investigation. Angela had been up and about despite the early hour, but Bones had blinked owlishly at him from the pull-out bed, declaring, "I'm not really awake yet." It had been minutes until she'd re-oriented herself enough to focus on the case. Every time they'd gone out of town or undercover and he'd been around to observe her first thing in the morning it had taken quite a lot of coffee to get her functioning. Never had he had the privilege of waking up quite like this—though it had been somewhat close, their last morning with the Circus. They'd gone to bed with as much distance between them as possible on the tiny bed in their tiny trailer, but Booth had woken with his face buried in Bones' hair, an arm slung around her slender waist still draped in that ridiculous costume. He'd extricated himself before she awoke, pulled himself out of bed and made the coffee, ready by the time she joined him outside the trailer to pretend nothing had happened—but he'd been in love with her long before that point and the poignancy of knowing that might be the only time he woke up with her in his arms had stuck with him a lot longer than his sadness over how the case had turned out—a makeshift family on the verge of destruction because of an accidental death and a legal technicality.

This morning—this moment—was indescribably better, but the multiple alarms still worried him. It was easy enough to decipher why Bones was having such a hard time making herself get up in the morning. Knowing that he was the cause of such extreme, prolonged suffering wrenched at his gut. He had put her through hell, yet here she was, his angel, asleep beside him, offering redemption he did not deserve.

Oh, but he'd take it. Even if he could deny himself again—which he was beginning to doubt, the way her slumbering face and bare shoulder made his chest constrict with love and longing—he would not deny her. And she had made it quite clear last night that she wanted him—even though he wasn't sure why.

He'd spent too long making a mess of things. His freak brain-surgery amnesia had nearly pushed them to the breaking point, but he'd been throwing obstacles in their path long before that. It was time to man up and stop letting his own insecurities get in the way. Because he didn't want to see her staring up at him, so overcome by the unexpected end of heartbreak she couldn't even speak. He wanted her breathless and giddy, like she'd been in the Founding Fathers when he'd told her they were going to dine and dash—shocked and overjoyed and ready to follow him anywhere, even if she pretended to protest. He'd do anything to return her to that state, because no atonement she could demand would be too much.

He watched her for a long time, lightly tracing lazy patterns over her bare skin, fascinated by its softness under his calloused fingers. Never before had a woman so entranced him. She had seeped into every aspect of his being, and the thought that maybe now they could live their lives together—instead of fighting so hard to be separate—was a wondrous relief.

He only considered waking her once she began to stir on her own. A frown creased her face, and the soft keening noises she made deep in her throat were obviously sounds of distress. Unwilling to let her suffer through her nightmare—and far too certain of what the content of that nightmare was likely to be—he whispered, "Bones," in her ear, pausing to place a kiss just below her earlobe before calling her again and shaking her gently. "Wake up, sweetheart."

When her eyes snapped open they were filled with the fear he'd dreaded but half-expected to find if they ever did wake up together. But he knew that in the last five months the reason for that fear had changed dramatically. He no longer worried that she would shy away from their new-found intimacy, her flight response causing her to lash out and then run. Now she was afraid to trust what she was seeing, what she remembered—when for so long it was his memory that was a failure.

This he could remedy. "I know who you are, Temperance Brennan," he assured, reaching out to brush a few pieces of hair away from her face, hoping she'd take comfort not just in his words but in their corresponding memory, when he'd held her in that barn. "Daffodil, daisy, Jupiter," he continued, punctuating each password with a kiss—first one shoulder, then the other, then her forehead. "I know that we kissed for the first time in your office under mistletoe because you were blackmailed by Caroline Julian, but I also know that I wanted to do this long before then—and since." His lips met hers in a soft kiss, and he opened his mouth to her but pulled away before things got too heated.

"Morning, Bones."

She blinked a few times, as if trying to orient herself in this new paradigm shift, before a soft, languid smile spread across her lips. "Good morning."

For a few minutes they just stared at each other. Booth was happy to let her work out their change in relationship in that squinty head of hers. As long as she kept smiling at him like that, there wasn't much else in the world that he needed.

"What time is it?" she eventually asked. Instead of waiting for an answer she twisted in his embrace to check for herself.

"Nine thirty!" she squeaked in response, sitting up so quickly it was only Booth's sniper reflexes that kept him from getting clunked in the face. "I should have been at the Jeffersonian hours ago! Why didn't my alarm go off?"

"It did. And man, Bones, static? Could you possibly wake up to a more awful sound?"

"The more abrasive the sound, the less likely a person will be able to ignore it and remain asleep."

"Nice theory, but it took a good forty-five seconds before I figured out how to turn it off and you didn't even twitch."

"My phone alarms should have gone off as well."

"I turned those off, too."

"Why?" she demanded, pulling on the sheet to wrap it around herself, which only made her look even more like some angry goddess, eyes flashing and hair sensually disheveled. This was his Bones, not the strange sobbing woman he'd come upon last night. He'd never admit it, but he liked when she was riled up—he'd never met anyone else with so much spunk.

But he also liked being the one to calm her down. He reached out to grab her wrist, stopping her departure. "You were exhausted, Bones. You haven't been getting nearly enough sleep for months, and don't try to tell me that you have. I didn't exactly help matters by keeping you up so late last night." He couldn't resist waggling his eyebrows, and he almost lost his train of thought entirely when she actually blushed in response. "And I was also hoping we could spend the day together. The Jeffersonian is not going to fall to pieces if you don't show up, just this once, and I'm sure no one there will hold one day off against you. So whaddya say, Bones? Play hooky with me?"

He expected an irritated: "I don't know what that means," followed by an adamant refusal. He had a couple of plans for convincing her otherwise, but he was shocked when she rendered them all unnecessary, sinking back into the mattress with a firm, "Okay."

"Okay? Really?" He couldn't stop his grin, even if he had been somewhat looking forward to the convincing process. There would surely be many opportunities for that later.

"Yes. You presented a series of very rational arguments. And I would like to spend the day with you."

She was honest—she was always honest—and the fact she wanted to be there, lazing in bed with him rather than at her beloved Jeffersonian touched him deeply. "Thank you," he whispered, knowing his response was far from adequate.

"Thank you for coming back to me.

So soft, so vulnerable, like the little girl he'd never been able to envision until she'd trusted him enough to show him her parents' file. After he'd looked up her foster records he'd pictured her like that far too often—an amazing, lonely girl desperate to discover why she wasn't getting the love she deserved. As much as he'd grudgingly come to respect the man, sometimes Booth wanted to go back in time and beat some sense into Max Kennan before he abandoned his children, even if it meant Temperance never became his world-renowned forensic anthropologist partner.

"I never should have left. I'm so sorry, Bones. I'll never be able to say it enough."

"That really isn't necessary. You didn't choose to develop a brain tumor or have complications during surgery. You had no control over your memory loss, and it would be unfair of me to blame you for it."

Part of him wanted to agree and let the matter rest, but they'd both done too much lying to each other by concealing the truth. If they were going to work—really work—they needed to be honest.

"I'm not sure that's entirely true." He could almost see her walls rising back up as shock and pain flickered across her face. He reached out to her, the side of one thumb sliding over her cheekbone, trailing down her neck to rest solidly, with the rest of his hand, on her shoulder.

"I need you to listen to me, all right? Let me tell the whole story, and then if you want to kick me out I'll go."

She nodded once, eyes wide with a fear he desperately wanted to rid her of forever.

"Do you remember when I first woke up in the hospital, how I was rambling about some dream?"

"Yes. Dreams can be quite vivid but typically fade upon waking. You never mentioned it again, and I assumed you had forgotten."

"I didn't forget. I still remember it today just as clearly as I did in the hospital. When I woke up I knew there was something not right about what I'd just experienced. It didn't make any sense in the context of where I was. If I tried I could remember everything about myself until about eight years ago, and much of it didn't fit with what I had just seen."

"What did you see?"

"You." He trailed his hand back to her face, wanting to be reassuring, afraid that maybe this was the last time he'd let her do this. "We were married. We owned a nightclub called The Lab. You'd never been an anthropologist; we didn't deal with death every day. But most of our team was there, working for us. Angela was the hostess, Hodgins was some sketchy mystery writer who was always hanging around, Sweet was the bartender."

"My interns. They were there, weren't they? That's why you remembered their names."

"Yeah. Wendell was a bouncer, the British guy was the DJ, and Daisy—well I'm not sure what Daisy did, exactly, except be annoying and then fall for Sweets when she found out he was in a band."

"And Zach?"

"Was your assistant." It all made sense now, how she'd been so freaked by who he'd seemed to know when he'd awoken, and who he hadn't.

"It wasn't that I didn't recognize you," he told her, knowing now that those three words he'd unwittingly uttered were the most devastating he could ever say to her. "I knew you from my dream, but I knew that dream wasn't right, as much as I wanted it to be, and I couldn't find any actual memories to correspond with your face. In our dream a body was found in our club. Everyone we worked with thought I'd done it to protect you. They all lied to the police to protect us, and the killer turned out to be Jared, but none of that really mattered. What mattered was we were in love, and so happy, and then I woke up and you were telling me that we were just partners, and I understand now why you reacted like you did but at the time I was just so confused."

He paused, trying to gauge how she was taking his story. She was looking at him like a bone on her table, so he waiting a bit longer, letting her process.

"You called me Bren. In your dream. That was your nickname for me, wasn't it?"

"Yes. In my dream world you'd never seen a dead body, so 'Bones' was hardly appropriate. Apparently my alternate self was a lot less creative. Had a rather bizarre sense of style, too. He kept wearing this floppy old hat like the one my grandfather used to wear."

"I still don't understand why this is your fault."

His desire to touch her was so strong he finally realized maybe he needed to run his hand down her arm to reassure himself she was there, and not the other way around.

"Because the more I was assured we weren't romantically involved in real life, the more I clung on to that dream world. I didn't believe you about being just partners—not immediately. The nurses told me you'd stayed at my side the whole four days I was out. And I knew you were upset when I didn't remember you—you cried. But then you didn't cry again. Not that I saw. We spent all that time together, but you never shared anything personal. You anecdotes were all very—"

"Cold?" She was drawing in on herself, and that was not his intention, but she needed to know this. He had to tell her now, before he lost all nerve to do anything that might upset her just because he needed her in his arms.

"Clinical," he corrected. "I get it now Bones, I really do. I know you were devastated, and you were just falling back on all your familiar coping mechanisms. But I'd forgotten how you dealt with pain, so I didn't understand. And then Angela would say things—"

"I told her not to tell you all her theories about our relationship!"

"She didn't. She didn't tell me anything useful at all. But it was always obvious that she wanted to say _something_. And she would show me these pictures, and most of them involved the two of us. We were never too close—well, except for that one of us in Vegas—but in many of them we seemed, well, intimate. You'd be on the platform, bending over your bones, and I'd just be looking at you. Or all the squints would be in the picture, but we'd be making faces at each other as if no one else was there. I'd beg Angela to explain and she'd just say things like, 'You spent a lot of time together.' But she was always so sad when she said it. I'd get the same kinda vibe from Sweets, whenever I mentioned you or asked why we'd started seeing him in the first place. So I started to think that the problem wasn't that we'd never had feelings for each other, but that we had and something had happened."

"And then, about six weeks after I woke up, I did have a memory. You'd come with me and Parker to the park where I used to take him. We sat down on that bench while he played and—"

"Oh God," she moaned, sitting up and wrapping her arms around herself, ready to flee with just a little more provocation. "We've crossed that line now. Are you sorry?"

"No!" He pushed himself up so he could pull her into his arms. She didn't return the embrace, but she didn't fight him, either. "I'm not sorry for anything that happened since I stepped into your apartment, except for all the pain it took to get us here. What I'm sorry for is drawing that damn line in the first place." She buried her neck in the crook of his shoulder, and he ghosted a hand down her bare back, causing her to tremble. "Please look at me."

She pulled away only enough to peer up at him, and he wanted to forget all this emotional honesty crap and just kiss her senseless. That seemed a much easier way to reassure her of his love.

"I never told you the reason why I drew that stupid line. Yes, Cam got hurt, and I wanted to prevent something like that from happening again. But Cam didn't get hurt because we were sleeping together. Epps was going after you, not me. I knew that, and I was so terrified that he was going to succeed. Cam knew that she had to take her time with the autopsy, but I was so worried about you that I pushed her to rush, and she almost died. I shouldn't have been with Cam again in the first place when I knew it would never go anywhere serious, and I never felt nearly as much for her as I do for you, but she's a good woman, and a good friend, and she almost died because of me. Drawing that line was an excuse to end it with Cam, but it was also a way to punish myself, because after almost losing you to that gravedigging bastard I knew that I wanted to be more than partners someday. But I shouldn't have let that almost get Cam killed, and I felt so damn guilty. Later I figured I was saving myself a lot of heartbreak in the long run, because you deserved someone far better than me, and surely you knew that."

He was still rather afraid she'd realize that now. He'd never met anyone else good enough for her, but surely such a man existed, somewhere. It was just always obvious to him that the men she dated did not qualify.

"You have a tendency to be unnecessarily hard on yourself," was her eventual response, as she turned one of the arms trapped between their chests so she could trace his abdominals.

The touch, and her words, made him gasp. "I've killed people. So many people."

"So have I."

"Only because of me."

"What happened after you remembered the line?"

She kept touching him, and he allowed her change in subject. "I only remembered our conversation—not what had led up to it or why I had said what I had. But I figured if we had ever been involved, I'd ended it—which I found incredible stupid, but it seemed to fit the situation as I saw it. It would explain your distance, the looks everyone gave us. I didn't want to make things harder for you, in case I'd broken your heart. But I couldn't let go of the picture of us in my head. I clung even tighter after that, because it seemed like my dreams were the only place where I could have you."

"I think I stopped myself from remembering," he confessed, and her hands stilled, just as he feared they would. "I stopped actively trying to remember, at any rate. I was so afraid that once I remembered my real life, I'd forget what I dreamt. And I didn't want to lose the feeling of making love to you, of joking together in our car about being outlaws, of us trusting each other completely even though everyone thought you were unfaithful and I was a murderer."

Never had he wanted to read her more than in that moment, but her expression was neutral. If she pushed him out of bed he wouldn't blame her, though she didn't make a move to do so.

"What made you let go of that?"

He let go of her, lying back so he could stare up at the ceiling and avoid her eyes. "You came to see me yesterday, and there was no reason—you just came. And then you cried again. And I finally realized how absolutely devastated you still were that I couldn't remember. You weren't coping. You hadn't moved on. And even if our relationship had ended, you still had feelings for me. You loved me. You ran out of there and I suddenly knew why. I wanted to follow you, but there was nothing to say. I knew the only thing that would make you feel better was if I remembered. And I wanted so desperately to make you feel better because I knew that I loved you. It wasn't some by-product of my dream—my dream was probably some by-product of the fact I'd been in love with you for so long. I went to the diner for dinner, and the memories started coming back."

He'd tried to concentrate on his paperwork and clock in his last few hours of the day, but all he'd been able to see, over and over, was her face, crumpled in tears, her emotions lying raw just under the surface while he looked away and let himself be blinded by a fantasy. He went to the diner because she'd mentioned they'd gone there together a lot—so many times, he figured, that he'd even dreamed about it. Instead of choosing from the menu he asked the waitress what he usually ordered, and she'd looked at him a little strangely before bringing out a burger and fries. The food was good, but there was something daunting about how many fries there were on his plate, which seemed such an absurd thing to bother him. Burger gone, he stared at them until he could see her nimble fingers snatch one away while her voice lectured him in a teasing lilt he had not heard since awakening. When the waitress returned and asked him if he wanted a slice of pie he nearly bolted from the booth at the explosion of images in his mind.

It was a small miracle that he made it back to his apartment in one piece, because being in his SUV prompted even more memories—countless arguments and discussions in nearly every tone imaginable. He stepped into his apartment and remembered how her voice had trembled when she'd revealed the abuse she'd suffered from some of her foster parents, how she'd been nearly as fragile when she'd come to admit that she wanted to believe in love. His mind and his heart seemed ready to burst with the intensity of everything that came flooding back to him, and it had taken hours to make sense of what he was experiencing, putting the pieces back in chronological order until he finally knew how he'd come to be in that hospital bed, with some gorgeous yet mysterious woman keeping vigil at his bedside.

"It took a few hours to process everything, but I came by as soon as my brain had settled. You know the rest."

He felt her lie down beside him, their shoulders brushing, but he didn't dare look at her. In the silence he could hear her breathing, which was just a little too pronounced.

"I did have a reason for going to see you. It was irrational, but it was a reason. It was five months from yesterday that I realized I was in love with you."

He'd known for a long time that she had a lot of heart, but just how much stole his breath away. He turned to find her watching him with wide, bashful eyes, as if afraid he'd shy away from her admission.

"I feel like such a dog, Bones. I hurt you—so much—and even though I didn't mean to, I did. I was selfishly holding on to some dream world when you were right in front of me, ready to offer everything I'd ever wanted. I put you through hell, and it took me five months to realize it. So much for my gut."

"You did hurt me. Although it's impossible to quantify, these past five months have certainly felt like the worst in my life." Her words hurt like her right hook—always so blunt, his Bones—but she made no move to actually assault him, even though he deserved it.

"But you were not the only one at fault," she continued. "I gave you little indication of my true feelings—feelings even I wasn't totally cognizant of at the time. Indeed often I acted in direct contradiction of them. I assume that I've caused you pain on more than one occasion. I shouldn't have accompanied your brother to that gala, and I never should have believed his disparaging words against you."

That had been one of the least pleasant memories he'd re-experienced, but there seemed no need to bring it up now. "We've been over that already—"

"And the baby. I was extremely inconsiderate of your feelings when I asked you to make the donation. I should have taken into account your situation with Parker rather than focusing on my own selfish desire. If I hadn't pushed the issue so forcefully, perhaps the last few months could have been prevented."

Her eyes were tearing up again, and he feared a return to the hysterical state he'd found her in last night. While part of him was relieved she was able to recognize there had been something cruel in her request, he found he'd rather brush that aside than let her take responsibility. Certainly he couldn't let her blame herself for the last five agonizing months. "Now wait a second. That may be the least rational thing I've ever heard you say. And I don't mean that in a good way. My brain tumor didn't suddenly appear because you asked me to father your child, and I agreed without discussing conditions. It'd been growing up there for a while. If anything, me flaking out may have been the best thing that could have happened. Otherwise who knows how much it could have grown before anyone realized. It was awful, but I'm here now, and I'm fine. As for the baby—"

"I don't want to talk about that. It was a selfish, impulsive request that I'd like to forget I ever made."

"That's a shame. Cause I meant it when I said you'd be a great mom. And I think any kid of ours would be pretty darn cute. And brilliant."

She tentatively met his eyes. "You'd have a baby with me?"

"I'm pretty sure I already told you that," he teased, suddenly picturing her swollen with his child, grumbling as he talked to her stomach; cradling their newborn, hair plastered in curls to her face as she beamed at the baby with more radiance than he'd ever seen; rocking the infant to sleep as she sang lullabies with that beautiful voice of hers; images that had come upon him so strongly when she'd first voiced her request that he'd been unable to deny her, even though the situation she'd suggested was absolutely ludicrous. When she'd mentioned the possibility of other fathers he'd known he'd suffer all the heartbreak of having a baby with Bones without really having a baby with Bones, because it would be better than watching her raise some other man's child. There was always a chance that someday they'd finally get on the same wavelength, and then there would be a ready-made family, already waiting for him.

But now… Now it could be different. Better. None of this sperm bank donation crap. Their baby would be conceived out of love, the way God intended, and he'd be there for every step of the process. That is, if that's what Bones wanted. But he figured it had to be, the way she was still lying beside him rather than hopping a plane to Guatemala so she didn't have to deal with all these emotions.

"When you mentioned having a baby with me I wanted that—so much—that I was willing to ignore the circumstances. The thought of having a family with you—even though I knew it would be messy and complicated—I couldn't say no to that. Now I think we're well on our way to cleaning up that mess, and there's little I want more than having kids with you. Although I vote for putting that off for a little while. Having a kid—it changes your life. I'd like some time for just you and me, before we throw another person into the mix. But someday…"

"Someday soon," she decreed, and he was a little puzzled by the edge in her voice as she emphasized her second word. Was she remembering his dig about her biological clock, back when they were taking care of Andy?

"Soon," he agreed. A year ago he'd been sure she'd never want to have children and now here she was, impatiently waiting to have one with him. It was almost as hard to grasp as one of her squinty sentences.

"So you forgive me?" she asked.

"Of course I do. Do you forgive me?"

"It isn't rational. I should be angry. But I'm not. I'm really, truly not. Isn't that part of love—forgiving someone when they hurt us, because you know they don't mean to?"

Maybe _this_ was his post brain surgery coma dreamworld. That or an honest to God miracle. "Yeah. Yeah, it is. I'm so proud of you, Bones."

She beamed, and he reached out to claim her hand in his, entwining their fingers. He'd thought it might be awkward, the two of them in bed together, but it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

He thought she'd started to drift back off to sleep when she spoke again. "While I was waiting for you to wake up in the hospital I started writing a book. You and I owned a nightclub staffed by various employees of the Jeffersonian. One night a cadaver was discovered in the bathroom. I never finished the book—never decided who had done it. But sometimes, after visiting hours were over the hospital was so quiet, and I was just too tired to write anymore, so I would read parts of it aloud to you. There's been documented proof that some coma patients can hear what's going on around them."

"You think that I heard you, and my subconscious expanded on the scenario?" he asked, amazed at the thought that they'd been so in synch, even when he was comatose.

"I think we both wanted the same thing, and were too afraid to admit it, so we sought alternate methods of experience."

"Wow. That's sounding awfully psychological for you, Bones."

"That's because it's subjective and entirely unable to be proven. Please don't tell Sweets."

He chuckled. "I won't. So, were we married in this book of yours?"

"No. But we were together. In love. More than just partners."

He could live with that. Maybe she'd never let him slip a ring on her finger. But she let him lie there beside her, despite everything. As much as he hated seeing her in pain, her despair had finally vanquished his insecurities. He could no longer doubt that she loved him just as strongly as he loved her, and even though many obstacles surely still stood in their path—he was not looking forward to explaining this to his boss—they'd overcome them together. The life they'd share would be better than the one in his dream, because this would be built on their past experiences, their four years of dancing around each other as they learned to share and trust and love.

"Sounds perfect," he told her.

"Nothing is ever truly perfect."

"Well, we'll just have to get as close as we can."

"I'm sorry I was such a mess last night. I was experiencing an unexpectedly strong emotional release that I was unable to compartmentalize."

He reached out to catch her chin so she would have to look at him. "Hey, no worries. You can cry on my shoulder—or any other part of me—whenever you need to. You were exhausted, and overwhelmed, and glad to see me, I hope. We all break down every once in awhile. It doesn't make us any less strong. It just makes us human." He loved when she watched him like this, and he knew he was actually teaching her something—something even more important than all that squinty knowledge in her genius head. But he didn't want to end on too serious a note—not after how serious their lives had been for so long. "But I hope every time we're together doesn't end up quite like that. So many tears, and a guy starts to worry about his technique."

In truth he almost hadn't been able to do it. It went against something deep inside him to make love to a woman who was so obviously upset. He'd imagined their first time together a thousand different ways, but none of them involved her bawling and speechless. He'd almost been a gentleman and denied her request until she was thinking more clearly, but he'd realized that leaving her then would do far more damage than doing what she wanted; she'd wake up mortified and reassured that no one loved her enough to stay, and all the progress they had made with their admissions would be lost. She was his rational empiricist, and what she needed was proof: proof of his presence, his memory, his love. And he could give her that, even if there was none of the romantic lead-up she deserved. He'd sacrificed all his plans so he could bring her back to herself in that moment. God willing, they'd have plenty of time later to recreate some of his more preferable scenarios.

"I don't think you have to worry about that," she replied, her voice a sultry purr that reminded him of the beginning of their partnership, when she'd infuriated him but something about her made him want to throw her against a wall with maddening frequency.

"And Seeley?" She arched one perfect eyebrow before inching even closer. Her penchant for saying his first name in moments like this was making it his new favorite word in the English language, and he'd spent more than thirty years hating his first name.

"Hmmm?" he managed to utter. It took all his self control to wait for her response rather than devour her right then.

"I don't feel like crying now." Then she pounced on him, her body crashing against his as their mouths collided. He laughed when they broke apart for air, deep belly laughs he couldn't control or contain, and though she looked at him for a few moments like he'd grown a second head soon she was laughing along with him.

Forty-seven minutes later she rolled away from him with a satisfied sigh. Sensing she was about to drift back off to dreamland, Booth poked her twice in the ribs. When that provoked no response he started to tickle her stomach.

Mind still a bit hazy from their love-making, he was not expecting it when she pulled a pillow out from under her head and whacked him with it.

"Oomph," he groaned, falling away from her. "What was that for?"

Her eyebrow cocked again, but this time it was all feigned innocence. "You told me I needed my rest. I was resting."

"You also need to eat. You're skin and bones, Bones. I can count your ribs." He couldn't help but smirk at his juvenile pun.

She rolled her eyes. "Homo sapiens have—"

"Twelve pairs of ribs, I know," he finished, leaving her to wonder whether he'd really counted or had actually listened to one of her anatomy lessons. "But they shouldn't be so prominent. Breakfast time."

"I suppose we could go to the diner."

"Nu-uh. Not today. I'm making pancakes."

"You really don't have to do that."

"I want to. You've been taking care of me for months, Temperance. Let me take care of you." They had one of their moments, staring into each other's eyes while the world fell away, but then he kissed her soundly, relishing in his newfound permission to do that. "I won't burn down your kitchen, I promise. And I make some pretty good pancakes, if I do say so myself."

"You just did."

He chuckled, and thought, far from the first time, that sometimes she did that on purpose. Maybe he did act dumber than he was to let her sound smart—but if he was still a betting man he'd put money on the fact that his expressions didn't trip her up nearly as often as she pretended they did.

"I don't want to share you with the world today."

"What about Parker?"

"He's already at school, and he has Boy Scouts tonight." Funny, how thrilled he was to be able to remember such a detail. "I'll call Rebecca this afternoon, see if I can pick him up from school tomorrow and spend the rest of the day with him. But today is for you and me."

She nodded once, and then she was sprinting out of bed. He barely had time to admire the view before she'd plucked his t-shirt from the floor and pulled it over her head.

The sight of her in his t-shirt and nothing else stirred something inside him she'd surely label as "alpha-maleness" or some such anthropological nonsense. For a few seconds he was overwhelmed by how right it seemed for her to look that way. Then he realized that for the first time in as long as he could remember he was absolutely, positively content.

"Not that I'm complaining," he pouted after ogling her just a bit too long. "Cause I'm really, really _not_, but what am I supposed to wear?"

He half expected her to pull out some small, girly t-shirt and hand it to him with a smirk. He knew he'd probably wear it, because he'd learned long ago that he couldn't deny her much of anything—except for a gun and driving privileges.

Instead he watched her long, tantalizing legs, only the top few inches covered, as she pulled a gray t-shirt from her closet and handed it to him. He let it unfold, shocked to find "FBI" written on the front. He'd given this particular shirt up as a casualty to the gnomes that stole clothing from laundry machines at least a year ago.

"Where'd you get this?" It felt softer than his laundry ever did, and it smelled of her.

"After you were shot I … took it."

He could see it all so clearly now—that which he'd never suspected. She'd known where his key was that day she stormed his bathroom because she'd already found it. He'd been dead, and she'd broken into his apartment to what—steal some of his clothing? Sleep in his bed, maybe? Surround herself with his things, dwell irrationally on the person who had promised never to leave her, but had anyway. Oh God. And he'd been hurt, once he came back, that she hadn't seemed to care that he had died. But she had. Oh she had. He'd been causing her pain far longer than he had realized.

They had to work on their communication.

She turned, going back to her closet to pull on a pair of pajama shorts. He put on the shirt she had given him before retrieving his boxers and sweats from the side of her bed. When she hadn't moved by the time he finished he approached her quietly, placing a hand on her shoulder.

He expected tears. But she spun, and her eyes were dry. The smile she gave him was small, but genuine. And he knew he'd been forgiven again.

The past was the past, and could not be changed. But the future? Oh, the future.

"Breakfast?" she asked.

"Breakfast," he echoed with an answering smile of his own. Instinctively his hand sought the small of her back, but instead of staying there his fingers drifted, curling around her waist and pulling her beside him toward the kitchen.


	3. Part 3

_Again, your reviews have just blown me away! Thank you, thank you._

_This may not be what many of you were expecting, but I just couldn't resist. As much as we love Booth and Brennan, what would _Bones_ be without the squints? Kudos to the reviewer who totally called this._

**Part 3**

When Brennan didn't show up for work on Tuesday morning, Angela feared the worst. Bren was always in the lab by the time everyone else started drifting in around eight. Always. In the past five months she'd taken to disappearing into her office or Limbo for hours on end without speaking to anyone, but she was still there. But today she was … not.

Angela had actually made sure to show up on time for once, so she could track down Bren and try to grill her again about her bizarre behavior the day before. But all her usual haunts were empty, and there was nothing in her office that implied she'd arrived at all—no jacket on her chair, no purse or laptop on the desk.

Which was so not good.

By the time Angela had given up looking on her own Hodgins and Wendell had taken to the platform and were bent over their latest Limbo case. Silently.

"Have either of you seen Bren?" she asked as she swiped herself in.

Both men jumped slightly—the platform used to buzz with activity, but not anymore. The Jeffersonian hadn't been so dark since Zach's confession, and even that pallor had faded more quickly than the one currently encasing it. They'd all been shocked and devastated to have Zach taken from them, but Booth had kept bringing cases, along with coffee and donuts, and he'd pulled Bren around and they'd bickered just like always. Soon Angela had found herself helping to try to lighten the mood, because dwelling on their loss wasn't going to bring Zach back or make any of them feel any better, so they might as well try to get over it.

But there was no getting over their current tragedy, not while it was still ongoing. It felt wrong to joke on the platform now, disrespectful, and being at all lighthearted in Brennan's presence tended to provoke her wrath.

"Dr. B isn't here?" Hodgins whispered, as if the person in question could overhear them talking about her.

"I haven't seen her since yesterday afternoon when she," Wendell made a vague hand gesture, "left."

"All right. I'm calling her." Angela took a few steps away from the boys and pulled out her cell phone. After four rings the line went to voicemail. "Bren. Sweetie. It's after eight o'clock and you're not here. Please call me and tell me you're stuck in traffic, all right? You hear that? Call me back."

"She _could_ be stuck in traffic," Hodgins tried to reassure, but Angela wasn't buying it.

When Booth's death had been faked, Bren had held it together. Angela had known her enough to recognize that she was not coping nearly as well as she was trying to convince the world she was. She worked too hard for too many hours, she was snappish, even with Zach, and she wore make-up to cover the circles under her eyes. While everyone around her marveled that she was taking her partner's death so well Angela knew otherwise—but there were still moments when she seemed so unfeeling that Angela had just wanted to shake her until she admitted she cared.

No one was fooled this time around, and Booth wasn't even dead. The great Temperance Brennan was unraveling, and she wasn't even bothering to hide it.

For five months Angela had tried to tape her back together, but she was failing. Totally failing. She'd done everything she could think of—a couple of times. She'd shown up at Bren's apartment with beer, with ice cream, with chick flicks and documentaries. She'd tried dragging her to bars, to the movies, even to dull university lectures she didn't care a lick about. Usually Bren brushed her off, occasionally she let her stay, but she didn't emote, didn't share, didn't take any joy from anything Angela said or did.

It was driving the artist absolutely crazy. She loved her best friend, she really truly did, but she wasn't sure how much more of this she could take. Angela needed joy, she needed adventure, she needed life—but lately the Jeffersonian seemed like a morgue. They had used to be a family, but nothing had been quite right since Zach left, not with the ever changing intern of the week preventing the formation of any new relationship or sense of normalcy. Bren had supposedly been close to a decision on his permanent replacement, had even consulted Angela about it, but since the surgery this was just one more topic that could not be brought up in Brennan's presence. She'd been waiting to talk to Booth about it one last time.

Personally, Angela was gunning for Wendell. She and Mr. Bray had gotten off to a rocky start, but she was thoroughly convinced now that she'd misjudged him. He lacked the obnoxious quirks of some of the other forerunners—Fisher's eternal pessimism was amusing for like five minute before he was just a drag, and Nigel-Murray was likely to bore them to death with his constant facts, even if his accent was hot. Unlike Clark (who Angela loved to tease, but couldn't see enduring their company for more than a few months—and come on, if you took away the drama, then they just had slime and skeletons, and _that _was depressing) Wendell wanted to fit in, and that's what the team needed, another member they could embrace who'd be willing to embrace them. Wendell would never be Zach, but he could be a friend. It didn't hurt that he was far more attractive than the average scientist, either. Zach had been like a puppy dog, adorable, but Wendell was all wolf.

Wendell was looking at her now, but he offered no explanation of his own. "Maybe," Angela conceded skeptically to Hodgins' hypothesis. "You don't think anything bad could have happened to her, do you? Besides the obvious? There haven't been any loose ends on any of our recent cases, right? Mob bosses who could be after her, deranged suspects still out there?"

"Angie." Jack pulled off his gloves before putting both hands on her shoulders, and she thought he was going to hug her, but he didn't. His blue eyes bored into hers. "I think this is a Booth thing. Not a serial killer thing. Not a criminal thing of any kind. And I'm saying that as someone who both loves conspiracies and has been kidnapped with Dr. B before. We know she was upset yesterday. And she's only twenty minutes late. Give her a little more time before you go into total freak out mode. If she doesn't come in, we'll go look for her."

Angela nodded, surprised to find her eyes burning with tears. "Okay. I'll give her time." Then she fled from the platform, hoping Wendell didn't realize how upset she was, wishing Hodgins would forget.

The problem was that as much as she hoped she was overreacting, she wasn't overreacting, because even if the most obvious solution was the correct one, and Bren was just finally dealing with her grief, Angela didn't know how to help her.

She felt like a failure. She'd spent so much time trying to sell Brennan on the value of personal connections, to convince her that emotions were a necessary part of life, not ephemeral nuisances. And just when Bren had finally begun to accept that this terrible, inexplicable tragedy had happened, validating all her insecurities and leaving her ravaged with this new hurt she'd fought so hard to protect herself from.

Only once in this whole hellish period had she opened up to Angela. Three months after Booth's surgery she had showed up at Angela's after midnight, reeking of booze. "I love him, Ange," she had said without preamble, stumbling through the doorway. She was far too light when Angela caught her, gently pulling her toward the couch. "I love him, but he's never coming back to me." She didn't explain how she'd come to this revelation. She just cried, and these tears terrified Angela because Temperance Brennan didn't cry, not for more than a minute or two. As much as Angela had encouraged her friend to indulge in normal emotional release, now that she was Ange did not know how to deal with it. She let her friend cling to her as she cried, but she did not promise her everything would be okay, because in that moment she doubted that it would.

Bren eventually passed out on the couch, and when she awoke impeccably composed and determined to get Angela to promise never to speak of this moment, Angela hoped the breakdown was the beginning of a recovery. Instead Bren grew increasingly exhausted, and Angela feared she was doing far too much late-night crying on her own.

Back in her office, Angela attempted to quell her own tears by focusing on her latest facial reconstruction, but drawing an adolescent girl who had somehow ended up in a pit filled with Civil War soldiers did not cheer her. Instead she left Bren three phone messages, two emails and seven texts, and thought of the conversation she'd had with Sweets, a few months into Booth's amnesia.

"Don't you think that she's sabotaging this?" she had asked. Finding the Jeffersonian too depressing, Angela had skipped out for a long, early lunch and found Sweets alone at the diner, sitting at Booth and Brennan's regular table. The psychologist had been quite glum himself since Booth's surgery. Angela hadn't realized he and the agent were so close. He wasn't around nearly as often now that Perotta was working the Jeffersonian's cases, but once or twice Angela had noticed Bren asking for him specifically.

"Sabotaging what, exactly?" The problem with Sweets was Angela could never tell when he was being a shrink, and when he was being a regular person.

"Booth regaining his memory. She made us all swear not to tell him anything personal about their relationship. She harped on me about it three separate times, as if I wouldn't understand—which I don't. She even told Parker not to call her 'Dr. Bones' around his father. Everything out of her mouth is all murder and detective work and science he didn't understand the first time around. Shouldn't she be telling him about all their little moments where they stare longingly at one another and then should rip each other's clothes off, but don't? Seems to me that would be much more likely to jog his memory."

Sweets blushed a little, and took a long swig of Diet Coke before answering. "Implying that they had a physical intimacy when they did not is not likely to be helpful to Agent Booth."

"As Bren has told me many times. Pre and post amnesia." Angela popped a fry in her mouth, but the salt it was covered in barely registered. Everything was so tasteless now. "Look, I know I'm big on the whole 'Booth and Bren should sleep together' thing. I don't want you to psychoanalyze me and say this has to do with my adolescent sexual experiences or blah blah blah. I admit that in the beginning I wanted them to get together because yeah, they're both hot, and she didn't shoot him or break any of his bones during their first two months working together, which was very promising. But I've been watching those two for a long time now. And what they have is a helluva lot more than just amazing chemistry. I've known Bren a long time, and I give myself a lot of credit for making her into an almost normal human being. She was just as bad as Zach when I met her—cold, disconnected, uninterested in forming bonds of almost any sort with other people. But Booth has changed her way more in four years than I have in three times that long. They just _work_ together, which I used to find really surprising, but they do. They bicker, and they argue, but at the end of the day they catch the bad guy and they go off and he teaches her stuff about life. He's good for her, and it's obvious they both care for each other. I just think it's silly that they keep up this 'just partners' façade, which no one buys, when they could be so much happier if they let themselves become something more."

"They do share a very strong emotional intimacy. It's fascinating to watch how they create a world only they occupy, thereby ignoring all others around them."

She couldn't help chuckling over how he'd probably come to that conclusion. "They do that a lot in your sessions, huh?"

"Yeah," he said with a sigh. "But I think what you've expressed speaks to the problem here. Dr. Brennan has come to trust Agent Booth deeply over the years. She's shared things about herself, her past. She's let him change her. She's opened herself up to new emotions because of him. I think Dr. Brennan would like Agent Booth to remember such things on his own."

"Well, we'd all like that, but it's been two months. That obviously isn't happening."

"Not telling him such details is also a way to retain hope. Even if he makes no progress, she can hold on to the fact that she possesses knowledge that might spark his memory. If she shares such things and his memory does not improve, she could be forced to face the possibility that it might never."

"That's a stretch, kid. Maybe that would be true for someone else, but Bren doesn't play psychological games. She tells it like it is. If she thought she could do something to help Booth remember, she'd just do it."

"That would be assuming she'd retained complete rationality. Love is not rational."

Her mouth had dropped open at that, and Sweets had grinned. "No, neither of them admitted that to me—not that I could tell you if they had—but come on, we all know."

Which was totally true.

"Also, you're the one who said that she's been learning things from him. From what I've gleaned of Agent Booth's character, he is a master of self-denial and repression, which has probably contributed to the reasons they have not embarked on a sexual relationship. She may have subconsciously picked up on some of his techniques."

Angela wasn't sure she bought any of that, but she found the topic of conversation scintillating. In the Jeffersonian it was now taboo to mention Booth and Brennan in the same sentence, and she'd missed churning the rumor mills. "Have I told you how much I'm looking forward to reading your book? Can I write the introduction?"

The way he flushed with pride made him look not much older than the twelve years Booth always teased him about. "The introduction's been written, actually. But I—uh—pushed the publication date back. It didn't seem appropriate, given the circumstances. I can try to get you an advance copy. But my publisher's not too happy about the delay."

"Thanks, Sweets." She pushed her plate forward, and let him take a couple of fries, wondering just when he'd gone from the annoying shrink who ruined everything to a real part of their crazy little family. "But the question is still: what do we do?"

"Nothing. I mean, we should continue to support them both as best we can, but we need to abide by Dr. Brennan's wishes."

"Because we're her friends?"

"Well, yes. But also because that woman has a mean right hook."

"I don't think she'd hit me. You—maybe."

"As interesting as those two are, it's not our place to interfere."

"Wait a minute, buster. That's rich advice coming from you. What about when we all thought Booth was dead, and you knew he wasn't? You didn't tell Bren because you thought losing Booth would make her face her feelings for him, and once he came back she'd be so overjoyed they'd make some sort of progress. That was totally interfering."

"I shouldn't have done that. It was unethical, and childish, and—"

"Backfired majorly?"

"And backfired majorly. Which interfering now could do as well. Imagine what would happen if you did reveal more personal information to Agent Booth, and he still didn't remember. Dr. Brennan would be furious _and_ devastated."

The kid had a point, as much as she hated to admit it. And she hated to admit it. So she said nothing, until another thought struck.

"What about hypnosis? That kinda stuff has always weirded me out, but I tried it back when I needed to remember my husband's name. It kind of helped. It's worth a shot, anyway, right?"

"I've already suggested this. A few times. Agent Booth has refused hypnotherapy."

"Why?"

"I'm not sure. He gave some superficial expressions of distrust of the process, and revulsion at the thought of people digging around in his mind, but I don't buy it."

"He's hiding from his memories," Angela declared, emphasizing her point by gesturing with a french fry. "But why?"

Sweets shrugged. "I don't know. Dr. Brennan's response makes sense to me. But Agent Booth's—not so much."

"Maybe because for all he knows, forensic crimefighting is a morbid job with no perks. If he realized what he was missing—"

"I'm not going to change my mind and condone your meddling. This isn't our place, Angela. As much as we may want to see things go back to normal, we have to accept that we are not the ones who can set things right. And we need to come to terms with the fact that maybe Booth and Brennan can't either."

But the thought of them all stuck in this awful limbo state for the rest of their lives was unacceptable.

Six months, she'd decided. She would give them six months to work this out on their own. As soon as they hit the six month mark, Angela was going to stop listening to Bren, consequences be damned, and do anything she could to make Seeley Booth remember. She'd tell him every personal detail she could think of, and if waxing poetic about his infamous partnership didn't work she'd guilt him into the hypnotherapy. Because they were destroying each other, and she just couldn't stand to watch it.

She still had one more month of inaction. But if she found her friend broken down in her apartment, inconsolable, it was likely she'd have to move up the timetable.

She'd already tried to get around her promise by showing Booth pictures from the stash she'd been collecting ever since the dynamic duo had started working together. She had even gotten Zach in on her scheme once upon a time, recruiting him to snap pictures while they were collecting evidence or bickering in the SUV. Right around the time she'd started dating Hodgins she'd been convinced that if anyone could change Bren's mind about marriage, it was Seeley Booth, and when that day came Angela was going to present them with one hell of a collage to prove she'd been on to them from the start.

This was a decidedly less romantic endeavor, but Angela had been hopeful that the snapshots would spark something. Booth scrutinized them all carefully, and she was certain he recognized there was something more than partnerly in just about all of them.

"Why do we look like that?" he had yelped, as he held out Angela's secret weapon: the snapshot of him and Bren in Vegas, his arm around her as her side pressed into his, her black dress showing off a lot of leg and a hint of cleavage. Angela wanted to tell him how he'd called her from Vegas, needing to know Bones' dress size so he could get her something to wear undercover—and she'd given it to him only after he'd promised to get a picture of them in their get-ups. The result had been even better than she'd hoped for—how obvious was it from his choice that he thought his partner was absolutely smoking hot; nor did Bren look like she was complaining that he'd draped himself around her. Instead Angela said, "You were undercover in Vegas," and left it at that, fervently hoping that somehow his mind would fill in the blanks.

Being so tight-lipped killed Angela, especially when he'd ended the first photo session with an incredulous, "Are you sure we were just partners?" Angela remembered how desperate Bren had been the first time she'd told Angela not to talk to Booth about their partnership—when she'd hesitated a moment Bren had actually started to plead—so she kept her promise, but it was a damn shame, because it sure seemed to her that Booth wanted to hear that they'd been something more. And maybe they'd never been the something more Ange had routed for, but there had been far more than professionalism between them, and now there was not even that.

Five months. Twenty two weeks. One hundred fifty two days. And absolutely no improvement.

This was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. And Angela wasn't going to stand for it anymore. As soon as Bren was found, Ange was going to try and convince her to talk to Booth—to really talk to Booth. And if she wouldn't—well Angela would. They couldn't go on like this anymore.

After one last phone message: "I'm coming to find you. Text me back if you don't want to talk. I just need to know you're alive," Angela was done with waiting. She strode into Cam's office, finding her boss bent over a pile of paperwork that had assumedly kept her occupied all morning.

"Did Bren call in sick this morning?"

Cam glanced up. She too seemed weary. "Dr. Brennan isn't here? I haven't heard from her. Maybe she's taking a personal day. She could certainly use one."

"Bren doesn't take personal days. She gets kidnapped by psychopaths, or she works herself until she falls asleep behind the wheel or just can't get up in the morning, but she doesn't take personal days to deal with emotions she finds ephemeral and useless."

"Okay," Cam said slowly, scrutinizing her employee. "You're really worried."

"Yeah." Angela took a deep breath and tried to look calmer than she felt.

"Then go, look for her. Do whatever you need. Is there anything I can do to help?"

They'd come a long way, Cam and Bren. There was a time Angela had half expected to walk into the lab one day and find them trading blows. Now Dr. Saroyan checked the security cameras each night to make sure Brennan went home, and accepted the fact she now made an even poorer forensic witness without threatening to fire her after every trial.

"If she's not at her apartment, you'll have to start calling hospitals," Angela advised, fear of such possibility washing over her anew. "And maybe Booth."

Six months ago Booth would have been the first one Angela called if Bren was missing. Chances were she'd be sitting right beside him, off to some crime scene with her cell phone left behind. If she wasn't, Booth would tear through the city with his siren on and track her down before Angela could formulate a plan of action. But now calling him would only complicate things, when chances were Bren was hiding from him. Angela couldn't help but wonder how he would take the news. Would he even care?

The thought that he might not was chilling. Probably untrue. But possible.

Unless the familiarity of her being in danger might bring some part of him back.

But Angela really, really didn't want it to happen that way.

"I'm going to Brennan's apartment," she shouted up to the boys as she left, only halting when Jack called out after her.

"Do you want me to come with you?"

She thought of everything that might be waiting for her: signs of forced entry, a struggle her friend may or may not have survived, no signs at all, or—oh God—what if her only attacker was herself—but surely Bren wasn't that stupid, or that desperate—and yes Angela wanted Jack there, to hold her if everything fell apart. But what if she was only overreacting? What would Brennan want?

"No," Angela answered with regret. "If the apocalypse has arrived and Bren is finally dealing with all this emotional upheaval, she'll prefer to have as few people see her like that as possible. I'll call if I need help, or if I can't find her."

Steeling herself for whatever might come, Angela breezed out of the Jeffersonian and into the crisp DC morning.

____

Brennan's apartment building hadn't gone up in flames, which was the first good sign greeting Angela once she arrived. No swarming SWAT teams, no paramedics. It was a lovely autumn day, cool but bright. She could do this, Angela repeated over and over as she waited for the elevator. She would go up, find Bren, comfort her, and if necessary, she would take action.

Shame all her deep breathing exercises were doing nothing for her elevated pulse right now.

She heard the noise as soon as she stepped onto Brennan's floor, and as she approached she realized it was coming from Bren's apartment. By the time Angela reached the doorstep she recognized it as 80s rock music—Foreigner, maybe? That didn't seem like something Bren would own, let alone play at a time like this. At least it seemed unlikely that a serial killer was holding her hostage and torturing her with catchy rock tunes, so that was a huge relief. Maybe she _was_ having some sort of emotional breakdown. At least it didn't seem like a suicide mantra.

For nearly a minute her frantic knocking went unanswered, and Angela was ready to check if the door was unlocked when it finally opened, revealing a flushed and guilty-looking Temperance Brennan.

"Angela!"

For a moment Angela wondered if Bren had been doing yoga—but only for a moment. The t-shirt she wore was far too large to belong to her, her hair was loose and unbrushed, and there was a blush—and a glow—about her that Angela recognized well. Usually Angela was all for a good roll in the hay to cure whatever ailed you, but now she felt strangely disappointed—which was the wrong emotion to have, since her best friend was apparently fine and for the first time in months didn't look god-awful. But she didn't think sleeping with some random guy would help now that Bren had finally accepted she was in love with Booth. Plus where had she managed to find a random guy when she'd stayed so late at the Jeffersonian?

"Hey, Sweetie," she said in a voice that she figured even Bren would realize meant she knew what was going on. "Mind if I come in?"

"Umm."

It was actually kinda cute to see Bren so uncharacteristically speechless—since when had she ever been so awkward about sex?—but Angela had spent the better half of her morning worried that her friend had been killed or kidnapped, so she wasn't letting her off the hook so easily. She stepped forward as if she had been invited in, causing Bren to step back in response. "I've been calling all morning. Half terrified that you ran afoul of a serial killer or a deranged fan—or a telephone pole. I totally support you taking the day off and all—but you could have at least sent me a text message to let me know you weren't dead."

"I didn't get any calls. And why would you think I had a fatal encounter with a telephone pole?"

"Car accident, Sweetie," she explained, exasperated.

"It's not Bones' fault. I turned off her phone."

Angela peered over Brennan's shoulder to find Seeley Booth standing in her friend's living room, looking a bit tousled himself. "Hey, Ange."

He hadn't called her Ange since the surgery—it was always Angela now, awkward and formal, as if he still wasn't certain that was her name, even though there was nothing wrong with his post-operation short-term memory. Amnesiac Booth didn't know how he fit with the squints—and with much of his confidence stolen with eight years of memory he now had the air of a kicked dog, slinking about with bowed head and puzzled eyes. But that was all gone now, his posture straight and a satisfied smile playing on his lips, just daring her to comment.

Angela Montenegro knew two things almost immediately. Firstly: Seeley Booth remembered everything about himself and the beautiful woman now wearing his shirt. And secondly: he'd just shown said woman what was probably the best night (and morning) of her life.

So. Hot.

It took a whole lot of willpower not to do a victory dance in the middle of Brennan's doorway. But at Bren's almost terrified look she contained herself. This might be the biggest "I told you so" in history, but after all the hell these two had been through lately they deserved this moment. She'd have plenty of time later to make scenes and inform them they could have avoided so much of this if they'd just hopped in the sack four years ago. In the spirit of friendship she could be the bigger person here. For now.

So instead she crossed the room, wrapped Booth in a giant hug and said, "Welcome back, stud," resisting the urge to follow that with something dirtier.

"Thanks," he said warmly, as the realization that everything was going to be okay washed over Angela like a warm wave on a Fijian beach.

"How did she know you remembered?" Brennan asked, and Angela and Booth shared a laugh before Angela moved on to give her friend an even tighter embrace. "I'm so happy for you, Sweetie," she said, hoping her friend knew how much she meant that. "And we are _so_ going to talk later," she added more quietly.

It was like a portrait of joy and relief, the way they stood side by side, his hand naturally gravitating toward the small of her back, both barefoot, unkempt, and radiant. Brennan must have decided Angela wasn't going to emit any unsightly noises because her fear was gone and she was smiling now, a genuine grin that brightened her whole face, drawing attention away from the dark circles that still existed under her eyes. The patented Seeley Booth charm smile was working overtime, and he was oozing so much sexiness Angela wasn't sure why Bren wasn't jumping him right then. She had the sudden desire to forget returning to the Jeffersonian and go home and paint—because when would she next experience such raw emotion?

But who was she kidding? There was no way she was putting off going back to the Jeffersonian. Not when that was going to be so much fun.

"Uh, I'm making pancakes," Booth finally said, when they'd all done nothing but stare at each other for nearly a minute. "You can stay for some if you like."

So that explained the white splotches on his t-shirt and the smudge on her face. She could see it—her flinging flour at him, his messy thumb leaving a mark on her cheek as he pulled her in for a kiss.

She really ought to leave them to their escapades.

"No thank you," she said with a chuckle. "I can see where I'm not wanted. But you two kids have fun."

She walked deliberately across the room, turning back once she reached the doorway. "And Bren," she just couldn't resist adding, "I'll be sure to tell everyone that you won't be coming in to work today." She grinned, shut the door behind her, and managed to make it back to her car before devolving into almost hysterical giggles. She could die a happy woman. Her life's work was complete.

____

She did her best to keep her expression slightly grim as she re-entered the Jeffersonian, but her lips kept twitching into a smile. Even the traffic she'd encountered on the way back had not sullied her mood. Was this what it felt like to win the lottery?

_Whoa. Calm down, Ange. This isn't even your own love life that's got you so excited. Maybe you're a bit too invested in this_.

Ah, hell. Of course she was. But she'd waited more than four years for a resolution! And this was the first good thing to happen to any of them in five months of misery.

Cam had joined Wendell on the platform, and even though Hodgins should probably have been off somewhere, analyzing particulates, the fact they were all together made this so much easier. They all looked up before she even swiped herself in, but she waited until she was just a few feet from them to say anything.

"So, did you find her?" Jack demanded. Cam and Wendell's faces held similar signs of anxiety.

"Um-hm," she answered, offering nothing more.

"Um-hm? That's it? Where was she? What happened?" Hodgin's worry was quite endearing. Bren had lots of people caring about her far more than she probably realized.

"Oh, she was in her apartment," Angela said solemnly, but then she let her smile break free. "She wasn't _alone_ in her apartment."

Cam looked confused and Wendell a bit uncomfortable, but after just three seconds Jack was grinning and Angela thrilled at how even after the past year and a half they were still on the same wavelength.

"It's finally happened, hasn't it?" he asked in the boyish, enraptured tone he often adopted while talking about one of his beloved conspiracies.

"Oh yeah. And that's not even the best part."

"Wait a second. Booth and Dr. B finally sleep together after _four years_, and _you_ are saying there's something better than that?"

He knew her so well, and she found herself trying to remember why they weren't together, and failing. Maybe, now that she could stop ragging on Bren to catch up to her own reality, she should consider taking her own advice. "He remembers."

Hodgins whistled low in his throat. "Everything?"

"I didn't stick around for all the details, cause let's face it—they didn't want me there—but I'd bet on it."

"Wow. You know, we always figured this day would come, but now that it has, I'm a little bit speechless."

"They really never slept together before now?" Wendell asked incredulously. Oh goody, a new player in their game. Angela had thought Wendell might be able to fit in.

"Hard to believe right? It's been hard to believe since like, days after they started working together. But no. They never slept together until now."

"And you're sure this really happened? It isn't a false alarm?" Jack demanded.

"I didn't catch them in the act. But all the signs were there. She was wearing his shirt. He was making pancakes. They're in her apartment, improperly dressed, at eleven o'clock in the morning on a _work_ day. She, Dr. Temperance Brennan, not only skipped work, but he had her so distracted she didn't even call in sick or realize he'd turned off her phone. Plus they didn't even try to deny any of my innuendoes. It's happened, my friends. It's happened. The evidence is conclusive."

"Well, it was a long time coming," Cam declared with a bemused smile. "Although if those two carry on like you two did I'm going to have to start carrying a water gun."

Angela's eyes found Hodgins' instinctively, and she delighted in his slight blush. Ah, those had been the days: sneaking off to the medieval storage room, making out over solved clues, seeing, for the only time in her life, what might have been a concrete future.

"How long have they been working together?" Wendell asked, forehead furrowed.

"About four and a half years. Booth was actually the fifth agent the Bureau tried to get her to work with."

"Sixth, I think," Hodgins corrected. "Remember Henderson?"

"Right. He only lasted about four hours. Bren broke three of his fingers."

"She did what?" Wendell's shock was priceless, but so was Cam's. Angela would have thought Goodman would have tucked that away in some file of instructions when he hired Cam to oversee the lab—_Dr. Brennan does not play well with others_.

"Broke his fingers," Angela repeated with a grin. "He touched her evidence. She warned him not to, but he kept picking up the bones without gloves. Chipped one. She slammed a microscope down on his hand."

"Now _that _was a fun day at work," Jack laughed.

"That man screamed like a little girl. I was actually worried he was gonna follow through on his threat and charge her for assaulting a federal officer."

"He didn't, I assume?" Cam asked.

"Would have, but how could he ever admit that publicly and keep his job—an FBI agent getting beat up by a scientist chick. But he certainly never came around again," Hodgins explained.

"Bren's tough, but Booth has calmed her down—a lot. Booth was right after Henderson, actually. I knew it was a good sign when they'd worked a few cases and she hadn't beaten him up. Which I thought might have changed after he got Homeland Security to arrest her after she ran off to Guatemala for a couple of months to blow off both him and the guy she'd been dating. Instead, they started going out into the field together, and thus began the saga of Booth and Brennan. Buckets of sexual tension, constant bickering, and the highest solve rate in DC. Somewhere along the line they fell head over heels in love with each other."

"Kenton," Hodgins declared with King of the Lab certainty. "He was in love with her by Kenton, I swear. The guy gets blown up by her refrigerator, and we're just chatting in his hospital room when he realizes the agent he'd sent her off with was working for the mob. You should have seen the look in his eye. Next thing I know I'm driving him to some warehouse even though most of his ribs are broken and he can barely sit up, and then he's handing me his bullet proof vest cause he can't get it on and telling me I can come—Booth never lets me go to active crime scenes. And the way they looked at each other when he pulled her down from that hook—wow."

Hodgins had told her that story before, of course, but Angela was still sorry she hadn't been there, although she wasn't so keen on the ravenous dogs and the shootout part. Numerous complimenting moments came immediately to mind but she paused, forcing her gaze to her boss. As much as her romance-starved brain wanted to gush about the Booth and Brennan love story until the sun went down, perhaps this wasn't quite the appropriate audience given Cam's previous…dalliance…with Booth. Angela had never quite understood that. Okay, so she totally understood it. The Special Agent was one hunk of a man, no doubt about it. But it had been obvious to Angela within months of meeting him that no matter what his body was up to, his mind would be on one particular woman, and Angela had no interest playing second fiddle.

Cam met her eyes and seemed to understand. "Oh, go ahead. Seeley and I had fun, but it's not like I didn't realize pretty quick that those two are made for each other."

Wendell's eyes widened as realization dawned. "You and Booth?"

"In my defense, I knew Seeley long before either of us came to Washington."

Angela got the feeling that by the end of the day Wendell was going to know so much about the entire team's personal lives that they'd pretty much have to hire him. Not that telling Bren that one of her interns had been given the Angela Montenegro version of her partnership was actually going to be a convincing selling point. But hey, after spending the day in bed with her Special Agent F-B-Eyecandy Ange didn't think she'd be able to be mad about anything for at least a week.

Wendell nodded, accepting without comment, and Angela couldn't stem her laughter. "Okay. Moments of revelation. A month or so after the Kenton debacle my boyfriend went missing in New Mexico. Bren flew down to identify this skull that was found. We were having trouble with jurisdiction, so she called Booth. She was so angry because she didn't think he was going to come. But then there he was the next morning, taking vacation days to chase her around the desert. She had him wrapped around her finger even then."

"And she knew it. When we got kidnapped by the Gravedigger, we were buried in that car, running out of oxygen, the ransom deadline already passed, and she never doubted that Booth would rescue us. I told her that she had a lot of faith in Booth. And she told me I was wrong, because faith was an irrational belief in something that is logically impossible, and she knew that Booth would come."

"Which he did, of course. But man, the way he stormed around this place once we found out you two were kidnapped. We were all upset but Booth—he was like a raging elephant."

"What about when the Gravedigger got Booth? Dr. B came after me for taking that evidence—such quiet fury. It was terrifying. And the way she smacked that Taffet bitch with the briefcase..."

"How about when Booth got kidnapped by those West Virginian crime bosses, and she lied to the FBI and went to her father for help even though she was still furious with him."

"Her father teaches the afterschool science program, right?" Wendell asked. "Max something? Why was she mad at him?"

Angela was not diplomatic enough to explain, so she let Jack do it. "Max, uh, used to rob banks for a living. And he was accused of murdering a Deputy Director of the FBI…and setting him on fire."

"But he was innocent, right?"

Cam, Angela and Jack all shared a look.

"Erm."

"He was acquitted," Cam offered.

"Oh come on, even Booth and Bren know he did it. Bren's father is a psychopath. A very charming psychopath, granted. And really quite harmless as long as you aren't threatening his family."

"Max's trial!" Hodgins exclaimed. "The two of them were on opposite sides of the aisle, but they were whispering to each other so much the judge actually made them switch seats. Then during Booth's testimony, when the defense attorney tried to get him to admit that Dr. B could have done it—you could practically see his heart get ripped out on the stand."

Another moment Angela had missed, although she didn't regret refusing to participate in that one. Searching for an appropriate follow-up, one particular thing came to mind.

"New Orleans," she and Hodgins said simultaneously.

She smiled a moment before elaborating. "It was right after Katrina, and Bren does not understand the meaning of a real vacation, so she ran off to New Orleans to identify bodies disturbed by the hurricane. She didn't come home when she was supposed to, and when we called her Booth was there."

"Turns out," Hodgins continued, "that she got involved with some voodoo murder cover-up. The guy beat her up pretty bad, and put some kind of curse on her so she forgot a whole day."

"You know, I think _that_ is when I knew. Because Bren was confused and in trouble, and instead of calling me, she called Booth. Didn't ask him to come—told him not to, actually—but she told him what was going on, while we were left with cryptic comments like "don't worry, the murder charge won't stick." Of course he flew right down there anyway. He even got Caroline to come and defend her when she got accused of murder. Then they caught the bad guy and he brought her home."

"What was up with that earring?" Hodgins asked.

Angela smirked. She'd wondered that herself after watching the pair's cryptic interaction the night they got back, and she'd harassed Brennan until she'd told her the whole story. "It was her mother's. She lost it in the attack. Booth lifted it from the crime scene."

"Go G-man!" Hodgins said with a chuckle.

"I tell you, Wendell, those two are like watching Shakespeare. Except that the play never ends. I scared Tessa away almost four years ago. Four years. Such a wasted effort."

"Tessa?"

"Booth's girlfriend at the time. Blond. A lawyer. Insecure about Booth's hot new partner. Totally wrong for him. I was doing them both a favor. But I never thought it would take Bren so long to make a move."

Angela and Jack both shook their heads.

"So this is what you guys do all the time?" Wendell asked.

"Oh, we bring faces and justice to the unfortunately deceased," Angela answered. "But we've got this great love affair in the making, and we have horribly mutilated bodies. Which do you think I want to emotionally engage with?"

"After that stunning endorsement of our professional careers, perhaps we can actually get back to work now," Cam suggested pointedly.

Angela and Jack both fixed her with the look of disbelief they'd perfected back when Dr. Saroyan had first arrived and they'd taken every opportunity to fight her authority. To Wendell's credit, he managed a quite impressive look of incredulity as well. Yes, he'd fit right in. Angela was so going to put in another good word for him.

"Fine," Cam caved, her slight smile revealing she wasn't actually too annoyed. "Someone call Sweets and tell him to meet us at the diner. But after lunch we are going to get back to work, people."

"Thank you, Cam," they chorused.

"I'll call the shrink," Angela offered.

"Maybe now that this tragedy is over he can tell us what the hell happened in therapy that got Brennan to admit she wanted to have Booth's baby," Jack declared. "You heard about that, didn't you?" he asked Wendell.

"Uh, yeah. Fisher mentioned it. But isn't Sweets bound by doctor-patient confidentiality, or something?"

"Eh, it's not like it's a secret. Dr. B blurted it out while we were sifting through a barrel of wine soaked remains."

"Sweets will spill," Angela predicted. "Next to me, he's their biggest cheerleader."

"That woman's going to be a horror when she's pregnant," Cam remarked as she left the room. "I may have to take a sabbatical."

"Yeah," Angela called after her retreating back. "But their kid is going to be absolutely adorable."

"Told you it was a Booth thing," Jack whispered, leaning close as he walked around Angela to discard his lab coat and collect his things.

"This was so not what you meant," she shot back, but he had been right and she wasn't too determined to take that away from him, especially not when he flashed her a smile before exiting the platform.

She hung back a moment so she could speak to Wendell. He looked a bit overwhelmed by all the information he'd just absorbed. Though befuddled really seemed to work for him.

Might as well turn his day upside down just a little more. "And _this_ is why I knew Bren didn't want to sleep with you." She wrapped an arm around his shoulder and leaned in close. "It was really nothing personal," she purred. Then she skipped away with a laugh, delighting in the way his face flushed. Mr. Bray had been around enough that he probably understood how she operated somewhat. And if he was going to be sticking around, he'd just have to get used to it.

She caught up to Hodgins by the time she pulled out her cell phone. "Hey Sweets. Meet us at the diner as soon as you can get there. Booth remembers, and he and Bren finally slept together, so we're going out to celebrate."

As "that's wicked awesome," carried across the lab, Angela looked at her smiling colleagues and knew they were all going to be okay. They were all going to be so much better than okay.

____

_So that's it folks, my first foray into Bones fanfiction. If you enjoyed it, I'd appreciate if you took a moment to review. No immediate follow-ups are in the works (I need to return to my neglected original fiction) but depending on how the mood strikes me, I can think of a couple connected fluffy one-shots in the Lament universe that may make an appearance someday. Let me know if there's an interest._


End file.
